by C. L. Taylor
“There is medication I could give you,” she says, “to help with the anxiety. It’d help you feel less overwhelmed and more able to cope.”
Brian’s face brightens and he parts his lips to speak but is silenced by a look from Dr. Turner.
“We could try that,” she says. “But I would recommend that you take it in conjunction with therapy. Some therapies, CBT—cognitive behavior therapy—in particular, can be hugely helpful when dealing with PTSD. What do you think, Sue? Would you like me to arrange for you to see someone?”
I don’t know what to say. I feel awful, like this poor doctor has been tricked into thinking I’m ill when I’m perfectly healthy.
“No,” I say. Brian inhales sharply. “To the therapy, I mean. I don’t have time for a lot of sitting around and chatting and—”
“CBT is more than just chatting, Sue. It’s about changing the way you think.”
“I appreciate that. I really do. But I’ll just go for the medication, if that’s okay.”
“It is.” Dr. Turner’s eyebrows are raised but she seems satisfied with my response. She turns back to her computer and clicks several times with her mouse. A couple of seconds later, she swivels around to the printer and tears off a green prescription form.
Brian leans over and puts a hand on my knee. “You’re doing the right thing, Sue.”
He smiles, his eyes shining with relief.
I half-listen as the doctor talks me through the medication, telling me when I should take it, what might happen if I drink alcohol or combine it with other drugs, explains about possible side effects, and then suggests we make an appointment for six weeks’ time to review my progress.
“You might feel differently about CBT then,” she adds. “If you change your mind, just let me know.”
“Maybe.” I take the prescription she’s holding out, fold it in two, and slip it into my handbag.
The doctor smiles a half smile, nods briefly at Brian, and then swivels around to reach for a book on the shelf behind her. Appointment over.
“Come on then, darling.” Brian reaches for my hand and squeezes it tightly. “Let’s go to the pharmacy and get you dosed up.”
Thursday, May 30, 1991
It’s been nearly two months now since James and I split up, and despite Hels telling me that time is a healer, I feel worse now than I did the day we split up.
I spoke to Hels the morning after and told her what had happened. She gasped when I told her about James holding me against the wall and said that, if she ever heard me make excuses or blame myself for James’s behavior again, she’d never speak to me again. Then she ordered me to report him to the police. I know she was just worried about me, but her comment annoyed me. James wasn’t a criminal. He was drunk and scared I’d slept with someone else. Yes, he’d lost his temper and got a bit rough, but he didn’t actually hit me. And besides, he knew half the police force, so what was the point? They’d only let him go (particularly as there wasn’t a scratch on me).
I didn’t tell Hels any of those things, of course. Or the real reason I was refusing to go to the police—I was secretly hoping that, by the end of the day, James would be on my doorstep with a bunch of red roses and an apology. He wasn’t. He didn’t ring either. And I drank and smoked myself to sleep for a second night.
I saw a lot of Hels and Rupert those first few weeks after James and I split up. One of them would ring at least once a day and they’d take me out—to the cinema, the pub, their house for a meal—two or three times a week. I’m not sure when, or why, we started to drift apart again. Maybe it was after their holiday in Greece, maybe it was when Rupert had to put in a lot of overtime at work, or maybe it was because I’d stopped bursting into tears each time James’s name was mentioned and they assumed I was over him. Either way, I stopped going out as much and that’s when the rot really set in. I’d lie in bed at night, poring over the details of my relationship with James, trying to work out when it had all gone wrong, trying to pinpoint the moment the magic disappeared. I was haunted by guilt and regret—if I hadn’t opened up to him about my sex life on our second date, he’d have carried on thinking that I was a precious angel; if I hadn’t told him about Rupert, maybe the four of us would have been the best of friends; if I’d dragged him out of the pub a couple of hours earlier, maybe his mum wouldn’t hate my guts. I wanted to rewind time, to go back and do everything again differently. Maybe that way, I wouldn’t feel like I’d lost the love of my life.
The more I thought, the more miserable I became and the more I drank. I’d sit by my phone, repeatedly snatching it up to check it was still working or repeatedly dialing James’s number. The first few times I called, his mum answered and told me that James wasn’t at home. The next time I called, the phone went dead at the sound of my voice. By my fifth day of calling, there was a “number not recognized” message on repeat. They’d changed their number.
I started making excuses not to go into work, particularly on a Sunday when I knew rehearsals were on. I lost track of the number of times I had a tummy bug, a migraine, or had to rush up north to see my mum—and when I did go in, customers would comment that something was wrong with my face and ask what had happened to my smile.
Last week, my phone rang. I snatched it up, sure it was James ringing to tell me he missed me, but no, it was Steve from the Abberley Players. He was in a pub with the other actors and they’d been discussing my mysterious disappearance. They’d figured out that James and I had split up from his surly appearance (I was glad to hear that) and the fact that he’d stalk off if anyone mentioned my name in his presence, and they wanted to check if I was okay (and if their costumes were near completion!). I laughed at the last comment, and Steve said, “See, I told them you wouldn’t have lost your sense of humor. Come out with us. We miss you.” I was touched but said no, I was already halfway through a bottle of wine and enjoying listening to my Nina Simone records and chain-smoking. Steve said that sounded like an excellent way to spend an evening and he’d be over with another bottle of wine and some more cigarettes. I tried to dissuade him, but he went on and on, wheedling at me for my address until I finally gave it.
Within two hours of that phone conversation, we were in bed.
The sex was perfunctory and drunken, and when he pulled me onto his skinny, hairless chest afterward and told me how he’d fancied me for ages and that James was a fool to let me go, it was all I could do not to weep. I thought that by having sex with another man—particularly a man that James despised—I could exorcise his ghost, but it just made me miss him more. Steve was everything James was not. I felt no intensity when he looked at me, no passion when he kissed me, and no ache in my heart when he curled up behind me and nestled his face into the back of my neck. I felt more lonely with him lying next to me than I had alone.
I couldn’t get rid of him fast enough the next morning. I could see the disappointment in his eyes when I turned down his suggestion of a fried breakfast in a greasy caf, followed by a browse of a local flea market, instead claiming I had a terrible headache and just wanted to go back to bed. He said he’d come with me, that, thinking about it, he could do with a snooze too, but just the thought of his naked body touching mine again was enough to make me feel sick. I was brusque, made it clear I wanted to be alone, and practically marched him to the front door. When I opened it, Steve stepped out onto the street, then turned back to look at me. His eyes met mine.
“He doesn’t deserve you, you know.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not an idiot.” He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, suddenly looking impossibly young. “I know you still love him. I just thought…hoped…that if you spent time with me, someone who’d cherish you, someone who’d never be cruel or hurt you, then maybe, maybe you’d…” He tailed off and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Look after yourself,
Susan.” He touched the back of my hand. “Please.”
Chapter
Nineteen
Brian hasn’t left my side for four days. I’ve told him over and over again that he should go back to work because I’m not mad and I’m not going to do anything stupid, but he won’t listen. He keeps telling me that this isn’t about me being “mad”; it’s about me getting a bit of R&R after a stressful few months, and he’s only taking time off to ensure that I do actually put my feet up and relax.
“Tablet time!” he says, breezing into the living room with a cup of tea in one hand and a small white bottle of pills in the other.
“Brian—”
“You did promise, Sue,” he says, setting the steaming mug of tea on the table beside me and handing me the tablets. “You told the doctor you’d take your medication.”
I smile at my husband, unlock the lid of the pill bottle with a sharp twist, and shake two small white pills into the palm of my left hand. I regard them dispassionately. They’ll make me calmer, Dr. Turner said. I rotate my wrist so the pills tumble over each other. What is it like not to feel anxious? To feel secure instead of scared? It’s been so long I can barely remember.
“Water,” Brian says, standing up suddenly. Five minutes later, he returns, a glass of water in one hand, his newspaper in the other.
“There you go,” he says, placing the glass on the table beside me and glancing meaningfully at the two pills lying on my open palm. I clench my hand shut. I’ve taken tablets like this before and they work quickly. Within an hour of swallowing them, I’ll be a more relaxed, immobile, docile version of myself. So docile I will be unable to protect my family from danger.
“Brian,” I say. “Would it be the end of the world if I didn’t take—” But I’m interrupted by the trill ring of the study phone.
“Damn it.” He grimaces. “I’ll have to get it. It might be important.”
“Of course.”
I stay where I am, in the center of the sofa, the glass of water on my left, the pills in my hand, and listen as Brian thunders up the stairs and across the landing. There’s a split second of silence as he snatches up the phone, then the low rumble of his voice as he answers. He’s quiet, then there’s another rumble, louder this time, and then the thump-thump-thump of his footsteps across the landing and down the stairs.
“God damn it!” He bursts into the living room and throws himself into the armchair.
“Bad news?”
He slumps forward and rests his head in his hands but says nothing. Neither do I. Sixteen years together have taught me to give Brian his space when he’s in a bad mood; they pass quicker that way.
“Hmm.” He peers at me through his fingers and shakes his head. “No, I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“What wouldn’t?”
“They want me to go in. The wind turbine vote has been brought forward.”
“Then go!” I smile. “I’ll be fine.”
“No.” He shakes his head again. “You need me here.”
“Brian, I’ll be fine, honestly. I’ve got Milly to keep me company. And besides, if you disappear off for the afternoon, I can watch Deal or No Deal in peace without you shouting at the TV about how there’s no such thing as positive bloody vibes or unlucky boxes.”
He cracks a smile. “I’m not that bad.”
“You are!” I laugh. “Go! I’ll call, I promise, if anything happens. Not that it will,” I add hastily.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be fine.”
Brian stands up, crosses the room, and gives me a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll try and be as quick as I can, but you know how these things can drag.”
“Just go. I’ll see you later.”
I watch him walk out of the living room and am just about to stand up myself when he suddenly turns back. His eyes rest on the glass of water on the table beside me.
“Did you take your tablets okay?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling brightly as I press the small white pills into the gaps between the sofa cushions. “I barely felt them go down.”
***
Ten minutes after my husband’s car has pulled out of the driveway, I do the same with my VW Golf, but instead of driving to the station like Brian, I head for White Street and a parking space outside Ella Porter’s house.
I can see her now, traipsing up the road, her school blazer casually slung over one shoulder, her bag carried loosely in one hand, almost trailing on the pavement. It’s killed me, the last few days, being trapped inside with Brian, unable to find out where Charlotte and Ella went instead of going on Mr. Evans’s school trip to London.
“Oh fuck.” Ella mouths as she spies me behind the wheel.
“Wait!” I call as she hoists her bag over her shoulder and starts running toward her house. “Ella, wait!”
I jump out of the car and sprint after her as she yanks open the garden gate and hightails it up the path.
“Ella, I know about the business studies trip to London. I know you and Charlotte didn’t go.”
She freezes, her back to me, the key held to the lock.
“I spoke to Mr. Evans yesterday. I know everything.”
She remains motionless.
“If you don’t tell me where you and Charlotte went and what you did, I’ll tell your mum.”
“So what?” She turns slowly, her eyes narrowed. “She wouldn’t believe you anyway. She thinks you’re cracked. Everyone does.”
“Is that so?” I try not to think about the rumors that are circulating about me outside the school gates. “Either way, I know you lied about having food poisoning.”
“No, we didn’t. We stayed here all weekend, in my room. Charlotte didn’t want to tell you about the food poisoning because that would mean telling you she’d been to Nando’s, and then you’d call her fat and tell her off for breaking her diet.”
“I did no such—” I catch myself. She’s clever, trying to throw me off the scent by attacking me. “So if I ask your mum about that weekend, she’ll corroborate your story, will she?”
“She wasn’t here. She and Dad went away for the weekend.”
“Where?”
“None of your business.”
“It is if it meant two fifteen-year-old girls were left home alone.” There’s an electronic bleep of a car being locked, followed by the clack-clack of high heels on pavement. Perfect timing.
“That’ll be your mum,” I say without turning around. “Let’s ask her, shall we, Ella? See if she realizes it’s illegal to leave children under the age of sixteen home alone for an entire weekend. Then maybe we’ll ring the police and—”
“No!” Ella stares beyond the low hedge at the blue Audi and the tall, thin woman walking toward us. “Don’t.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because she’ll ground me forever.”
“Then tell me where you and Charlotte went.”
Clack-clack-clack. Ella’s eyes grow wider as the sound grows louder.
“No.” She edges away from the front door, as though preparing to make a run for it. “You’ll tell Mum.”
“I won’t.”
“She’ll kill me.”
“Not if I don’t tell her, she won’t. Your mum doesn’t need to know anything about this conversation, Ella.”
There’s a jangle of keys and the sharp squeak of a gate being opened. Clack-clack-clack. Clack-clack-clack.
“Tell me,” I hiss. I take a step toward her. “Tell me.”
“We went to Grey’s nightclub in Chelsea with Danny and Keisha.” Her words run into each other she’s speaking so quickly. “Charlotte met a footballer and I had to get the last train back to Brighton on my own. That’s it, end of story.”
“You left Charlotte alone in a nightclub in London with a man sh
e’d never met before?”
“And I had to travel across London in the middle of the night on my own to get the last train home. Anyway, she wasn’t on her own. Danny and Keish were there too.”
“The footballer—who was he?”
“I don’t know. A fit black guy with an accent. Some bloke said he was a premiership footballer, but who knows if—”
She stares over my right shoulder, her eyes wide.
“You again!” A cloud of Chanel No. 5 wafts up my nose and there she is, Judy Porter, standing beside me. “If you’re bothering my daughter again, I’ll call the police. This is harassment, Sue.”
“It’s okay, Mum.” Ella flashes me a look. “She’s not bothering me.”
“What did she want then?” She crosses her arms and purses her lips together, waiting for an answer.
“To thank me for dropping off Charlotte’s mobile.”
What? I look at her in surprise. She was the one who put the phone through our front door?
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” I look back at Judy. “It was very kind of Ella and the least I could do was thank her in person, seeing as I was in the area anyway.”
Judy uncrosses her arms, rocks back on a stiletto heel, and looks me up and down. “You’ll be going now then?”
Ella nods, ever so slightly. She’s begging me not to ask any more questions. To go quietly.
“I’m going. Nice to see you again, Judy. Ella.”
The mobile phone issue will have to wait. There’s somewhere I need to go first.
Friday, June 7, 1991
Jess, the bar manager, rang me on Wednesday night to ask whether I was over my “flu” yet and hinted, without actually spelling it out, that if I didn’t make it into work on Thursday, I’d lose my job.
I had no choice but to go in. What little savings I had were long gone and my rent was due the next week and I wasn’t sure how I was going to pay it.
My first shift started badly—I dropped a bottle of wine, snapped an optic, and overflowed the drip tray when I was changing the bitter—but it was only 6:30 p.m. and the bar was empty, and Jess had gone up to the office to work on the accounts, so there were no witnesses to my ineptitude. I kept glancing toward the door. James only ever came into the bar on a Sunday, and according to Steve, he hadn’t done that for at least a month, so why I was so terrified he’d walk in, I don’t know.
