by Laura Kemp
The lively black swoop of his handwriting came alive, swimming at first then crawling, threatening to suffocate her. Terrified, she threw the snakes across the room.
On her hands and knees, she began to heave from the pit of her insides. It’s over, her brain said, he’s leaving you, there’s someone else, that’s why he’s hardly been here. For his ‘soulmate’, a word he had always mocked for its suggestion of perfect love. There was no such thing, he’d always said. What he’d meant, Vee knew now, was he hadn’t felt a perfect love for her.
Delirium told her to talk him round – that’s what she’d do. He was just having a bit of a crisis, he was an artist, for heaven’s sake. And with all her talk of marriage, maybe it wasn’t the be all and end all. They could go for a walk on the beach and she could get him to throw his worries into the sea like stones. She had to, because after seven years of him, there was nothing else in her life.
Her surroundings drained to grey as she blinked hard to focus on a spot of paint on a chair leg, which squirmed until she could bear it no more. She slumped down into the foetal position as the blow to her heart infected her bloodstream and poisoned her all over.
She wanted Jez. But it was useless, she realized. He didn’t love her. It was over. Her plans incinerated, she wanted to die. Paralyzed by agony, she lay still for she didn’t know how long, listening to the stampede of terror of how things would now be. She tried to shut it out, but with eyes closed the frenzy became louder, hotter, sharper. Then the shakes came. Still alive but it was a living death as the tremors rattled her body.
Lurching up to her knees, she had to get out. She had to do something. But what?
Go to the studio and confront him? A blurry movie of screams and recriminations played out before her. She didn’t have the strength nor the desire to be humiliated in person. His artist friends would close ranks, tell her to chill out, cool it, babe, which would make her want to beat Jez in the chest until she was dragged off. Instinctively, she knew whoever ‘she’ was would be there too – she searched her mind for who she’d be. But these muses, these young up-and-coming artists, they were all the same, lithe and fresh, and Vee couldn’t bear facing up to a new model: she would forever have her face scalded into her mind.
She could wait here until he returned. But her hurt would be a million times worse. Because it would expose what she understood now was a complete daydream of their togetherness: this was his home not hers – they owned nothing jointly. They each had their possessions, there was no TV and their ornaments were cheap trinkets from their travels. Jez had always said ‘who wanted stuff when you had everything?’. Vee gave a strangled howl at the broken mess of her naive delusion.
She needed to go to a friend’s. Yes, that was it, that was she had to do.
But who? She mentally ransacked her list of contacts on her phone but most of them were old work colleagues or those she’d lost touch with, not people you could spill your guts on. As for trusted friends, well, her best friend had been Jez, she’d had no need for anyone else. There was Bex, who used to work at Hello Daaling, but had she said she was moving to Devon or somewhere? Vicky had meant to respond to her texts to meet up three times before Christmas but she never got round to it because of her life with Jez. Jemima? But she was Jez’s best mate’s wife and they had a baby and, oh no, she’d have known all about his betrayal. Jem would feel compromised, Vee would be mortified. Unmistakably, she had no one to turn to. There was not one person ‘on her side’: their friends were either mutual or his, she thought, ashamed of her stupidity. All her eggs, and ovaries, were in one basket – she had nothing of her own. It had been all she wanted, to be allowed into his gang. She was stripped of dignity, naked and needy.
Thirty and dumped. No money, no home and no mates. And it was all of her own doing. She’d nearly got away with it – but he’d found out she was still that chubby ginger kid.
She needed to leave. And quickly because the panic was giving her palpitations, which she needed to outrun.
Burning all over, she forced herself up to standing.
She groped her way up the stairs and saw an old crone in the broken mirror glue-gunned on the landing wall. The beginnings of wrinkles, a mess of pink strands in her bleached hair, a red nose with a tiny ring piercing and two swollen eyes: It was a far cry from how she thought she’d look the next time she saw Mum and Dad, all sparkling and engaged.
That was how she admitted to herself that she had nowhere else to go but to her parents’, the house she’d grown up in, aged thirty. What a birthday this had turned out to be.
She threw off his jumper and found her rucksack at the back of the wardrobe and began to chuck in anything that seemed essential, like knickers, bras, clothes, make-up and her craptop, her battered old laptop. Surveying the messy room, guttural gasps rose from her chest as she saw how one-sided their so-called love nest was. His paintings and arty prints were up, the standard lamp was angular and male, even the grey duvet covers were masculine: what little of hers there was, such as postcards and books, were laced with his influence as if she had been following a guidebook on How To Be Jez’s Girlfriend.
In her attempt to be accepted and to feel like a somebody she had sinfully subverted her very self. She had no idea who the real her was. She’d been a parasite, that was clear.
Looking down, the only thing that remained of life before Jez was the fraying Jarvis Cocker T-shirt she was wearing as a nightie. Gazing down on his black and white pixellated face of specs and beard, she thought of Mikey. What she’d give to see him but it was impossible – the Mikey she’d adored was a memory. She hadn’t thought of him in yonks. She hadn’t needed to. When she had it’d been with an ‘oh well that’s life’ smile, thinking back to her crazy innocence, when she’d asked him to be her back-up man: yet now she realized she was no more grown up than she had been then. Humiliating herself, she imagined arriving at his door, telling him that she needed him now after all. But he wouldn’t be the same: he’d obviously changed when she’d gone travelling. The old Mikey would’ve at least replied to her heartfelt letter from Thailand, made a joke of it or soothed her. Oh, she’d got over the fact he didn’t feel the same way as her, when she’d said that perhaps her feelings towards him weren’t just platonic. But she’d never understood why he hadn’t responded. Not even when she’d tried to friend him on Facebook when she’d got back from travelling even with Jez in tow – she’d been ready to forget things – he clearly hadn’t. Anyway, she thought, wiping her eyes, people grow apart, they change and harking back was not the answer.
Vee threw a hoodie over her T-shirt, pulled on leggings and boots then galloped downstairs to throw on her fake-fur lapelled three-quarter-length coat. She tied the belt tight to stop herself falling apart and scraped her hair back into a bun.
She took out her petite nose stud, letting it drop from her hand onto the table, and then she hoisted her backpack up onto one shoulder.
Looking round the vast cluttered room, which seemed the emptiest place in the world right now, she had a surge of pure fury and she kicked out at ‘The Angst of Man’, which rocked on its feet before toppling to the floor with several metallic bangs as it broke up. The destruction made absolutely no difference to how she felt.
Defeated, she opened the door and stepped outside, not feeling the icy sting of the February downpour.
Oblivious to the puddles and car spray, she was able to cry unnoticed, protected by the veil of rain which merged with the tears rolling down her cheeks, all the way to the coach station.
‘Cardiff, please,’ she said to the ticket lady who didn’t bother to look up at her.
‘Return?’
Vee shook her head. Then remembered she was invisible.
‘One way,’ she croaked, ‘I’m going home.’
Chapter Two
M
Tignes, France
Murphy flinched in his seat even though the gunshot of the cork came nowhere near his body.
Dodging the spill of the fizz, some of the lads shouted ‘wahey’ above the thud of tunes which filled the huge luxury chalet right up to its snow-lined windows.
‘Wahey nothing, lovely boys,’ he called from the leather sofa and jerked his head to the side to get someone to bring the bottle over.
His body was pounding with the after-effects of too much… well, too much everything in the last couple of days – make that the last six years. But this was what he was here to do – there was no point calling it an early night, if it was in fact early.
He had no idea of the time: it was dark outside but that didn’t mean anything because the night fell fast here in the wintry mountains. It seemed like hours ago that they’d eaten, yet he had no hunger. It could be 7 p.m. or 2 a.m. and, to be honest, who gave a shit? Only when they were too trashed to walk would they crawl to their beds.
Savouring the warmth from the heated wooden floor which rose up through his naked feet, the only bit of him which ached in a good way were his thighs: the snowboarding here was immense. The trouble was, the après-ski was even larger.
The bottle banged as it made contact with the coffee table and again Murphy felt the impact.
He paused his trembling hands, catching sight of the scar on his ring finger, always there, inescapable, and poured himself a drink. Then put the bottle on the table for Hugo, who was chopping charlie for champagne supernovas.
It’s all okay, he told himself, you’re with your mates in this fuck-off fantastic log cabin in the French Alps and you’ve earned it. He nodded in time to the dance track to confirm this was gospel and slowed it right down, scanning the spoils of his success.
On the right, the glass doors were indecently flung open onto the steaming patio, where Beats and Flo were neck-deep in the hot tub.
Dave and Jonesy were in the high-gloss kitchen, knocking back a single malt whisky. Shell and Orla were Tomb Raiding on the PlayStation lying in sheepskin-rug gaming chairs right next to a roaring fire. And on the left, Potts was on the climbing wall – whoever had designed this place had known just what would give international playboys a hard-on.
But Murphy silenced his sneers because he was here, wasn’t he? If he listened, he’d have to admit he was a sell-out and that was the worst thing he could be. He hated the irritating whine of his conscience that mocked him. Hated it because it always asked what on earth would Vicky make of him? Whatever happened to your politics, Mikey, to your compassion, to your sense of injustice?
He answered it back: she’s not here so do one.
He watched Hugo run half a lemon around the rim of some champagne saucers, dip them in coke then pour the bubbles. Murphy got up and took one outside.
‘Not having one?’ Beats said from the hot tub as Murphy handed it over then lit a fag and rested on the glass balcony wall.
‘Nah,’ he said, his breath smoking skywards as snowflakes started to fall. Not his scene, he wasn’t some posh boy even though his surroundings suggested it.
He turned around and stared out at the twinkling magical cabins dotted around the valley. With a pang in his heart, he thought how much Mam would’ve loved it here. The air, which was so cold it hurt to breathe after a while, was the definition of clean and fresh. As for Dad, Mikey would be tempted to push him down a slope.
At least Orla was here to witness how beautiful it was: his little sister who’d come along for the ride when one of the squad dropped out. She knew everyone anyway: they all hung out together in Hackney in London and he had no trouble paying for her. It was nice to be able to treat her when so much of her life had been shit. He liked having her here: it kept him grounded. Ish.
‘Don’t stay in that hot tub too long,’ he said, suppressing the desire to flick his fag into the blackness to watch it Catherine wheel into nowhere, ‘it’ll make your dick shrink.’
It was a crap joke but Beats laughed because he was off his tits. As usual.
He chucked his butt into a bursting ashtray and went back inside, realizing what a tip they’d made of the place. The surfaces were littered with glasses, cups and wrappers. Magazines and a set of massacred playing cards were spread over one of the settees. Snowboots, bits of outdoor clothing and wet towels covered the hall.
How could eight adults make such a mess in the few hours since maid service? He doubted anyone but him and Orla noticed – the rest of them had been brought up on hotel holidays and privilege. It wasn’t their fault: you only understood about tidying up after yourself if you’d had to share a minute caravan in Tenby in the pissing rain for a week.
He’d do a whip-round for the chalet girl later, wait until they were all a bit mashed so they’d give more. They could afford it anyway: apart from Orla, this rabble were all techie geeks who were coining it in.
Murphy started to have one of his out-of-body feelings: nothing to do with drugs, that wasn’t his bag, but because he never really felt as if he belonged. Floating up on the ceiling, he looked down on himself, seeing his left hand rub his severely short dark hair as he decided what to do next. Having a stretch so his green Atari T-shirt lifted to reveal a yawn of his trim waist. Padding towards the table where he’d left his iPhone. Scrolling through messages vacantly, not taking anything in, waiting for inspiration. From on high, Murphy was amazed that he was actually here. The rest had all come up through IT degrees – but he was the only self-taught one. But to them, incredibly, it gave him kudos and added to his reputation as one of the best corporate app developers in the business. That so-called advantage had been his way in to Kode, the company where he worked. Everyone here had design, programming and computing skills, which usually dated back to sitting in their teenage bedrooms trying to make their Myspace look cool. But they didn’t have the motive he had: the rocket fuel of grief when he lost his mam and the neglect of a drunk of a dad who lived off crap from Iceland. Nor the loss of the one person in his life, Vicky, who understood what he meant without having to say a word.
That was what had made the difference for this geek to inherit the earth.
So here he was, on another break. It didn’t matter where he was: he could work remotely. He was always on the move, splitting his time between his two flats. The one he shared with Orla in Hackney was small but smart, reflecting how far your pound went in London. His city centre Cardiff apartment was an opulent high-ceilinged Victorian duplex which had a balcony overlooking the hallowed rugby ground, the old Arms Park. Out of everything he’d achieved, he suspected this was all his sports-mad Dad was proud of – not that he’d ever said ‘well done, son’. Murphy still wondered if on a sub-conscious level he’d only bought it to show he’d made it when his father hadn’t. Mud and scrums left Murphy cold – he loved the apartment because it was close to everything but far enough from Dad’s damp sheltered flat.
It certainly helped him to relax when he was attending to one of Dad’s benders.
Murphy could see his lips thinning: how easy it always was to sink into that lava pit of anger. He looked at his sister and the red hot turned white. They’d both been robbed of their childhood. Their father was still apparently in his – never growing up, never taking responsibility. How many times had Murphy had to sort him out since Mam died? How had he survived when Steve Jobs, his idol who co-created Apple, the man who changed the world, hadn’t? The urge to leave the bastard to it was overwhelming. Yet so was the feeling of resistance.
Dad had no one else, having isolated the rest of his family. Mam’s side had never been part of their lives: she’d left Ireland after some kind of ruck aged eighteen. Conflict, it was always there, threatening. Orla had dealt with it through counselling and was evangelical about it: she’d caught him on the dark side too many times: it had worked for her.
‘You’ve got issues,’ she’d told him again and again and she was right. But the sour taste of puke when he’d had to clean up Dad after he’d soiled himself was punishment for the choices Murphy had made. The way he betrayed himself for taking the corporate dollar rather than d
oing some good as he’d always intended.
To feel he was dirtied with his father’s genes let him get away with looking a smug bastard in his expensive trainers, headphones and manbag, slurping a ludicrous bowl of edamame miso ramen noodle soup after weights in the gym. What the hell would Vicky think of the man who used to be Mikey?
There again was the voice which he desperately wanted to silence.
Suddenly his body was back on the sofa: an arm was around his neck and a mouth on his, rescued him.
‘Fancy a swim?’
Shell. His hot girlfriend of three months. Long straight black hair, green eyes beneath a savage fringe and scarlet lips; they were all red herrings, hiding her sweetness, Murphy thought. Shell was too good for him, he would hurt her, he just knew it.
‘Yep,’ he said, kissing her freckled nose, trying to make amends for those things she was unaware of. Including the fact that he’d wiped out in a powdery bowl of snow yesterday when he’d remembered it was Vicky’s thirtieth birthday, his heart jolting as if he’d been tasered by electrodes of an emotion he couldn’t describe: shocking yet with an inescapable inevitability.
He knocked back a large shot of tequila to anaesthetize his writhing intestines, which were refusing to settle quietly. Then bang. Beyond the grimace of the taste, he felt the wallop of elation which disarmed his hurt. Euphoria wasn’t a bad option, he thought, slamming another tequila before jumping up, preparing to race her to the inside pool lit from above by blue and red fluorescent tubes.
What did he have to moan about, really? Oblivion was Murphy’s idea of the ultimate escape.
*
