‘Don’t bully me,’ I reply.
90
Zara
After my clumsy episode in the bathroom this morning, fortunately I made it to my photography class on time. I didn’t want to be late – this is part of my course assessment and I’m heading for a first. Who would have thought, little old un-academic me, heading for a first.
I’m a bit bruised. No real damage. So here I am looking at a bowl containing an apple, an orange, a pear and a pineapple. I’ve arranged it perfectly. Still life. Far more interesting than I expected. My camera is clicking repeatedly. Shadows and light. Dust and softness. Intensity and vibrancy. The shadows and light of life.
91
Sebastian
Jude, did you see it all? Did you see me rushing to the probation offices? Standing by the minibus with the other ‘criminals’ – not that I thought of myself like that. I ignored them and looked at the ground until the supervisor arrived. The supervisor, Bert, was an emaciated man, with crevices on his face rather than wrinkles. A recovering heroin addict I expect. Bert doubled up as the driver, and drove us around three corners to the park.
We spilt out of the minibus – men, mostly middle-aged. Hair in short supply. Beer bellies abundant. I was the youngest by far, except for a pimply youth with a nose stud. Bert issued us with our equipment for the day. First, our bright orange high-vis jackets with COMMUNITY PAYBACK written in giant letters on the back. Specifically designed to make us feel ashamed of what we have done. A public shaming. How barbaric. Out of fashion in sophisticated cultures, ever since the Middle Ages. And I used to think Great Britain was great. Next we were given our litter grabbers and bin-bags. Whoop de whoop. Fun on a summer’s day.
All day collecting litter, melting in the heat. I was still recovering from the accident, so I found it very painful. We had our lunch break at a local café. That was when I overheard one of the men talking. It was better to turn up a few minutes late for the minibus, apparently, because if there’s no space on the bus you are exempted from a day’s service; people frequently get left behind. I never arrived early again. And that’s how I managed to skip half my hours. Clever, don’t you think? But then I always was a clever guy.
92
Miranda
The one time I leave work before Sebastian, Anastasia steps out of her office and bumps into me as I am going. Today she is wearing a leather dress. It looks stiff and uncomfortable. As soon as she sees me she makes a point of glancing at her watch. I don’t smile at her. I don’t speak to her. I just continue rushing down the corridor to try and make it look as if I am going somewhere important.
In fact, I am escaping early because I am determined to make a special casserole for supper. An apologetic supper to compensate for the mess I left in the bathroom this morning. I stop at the supermarket around the corner from work to buy the ingredients. Chicken. Bay leaves. Tarragon. Shallots. White Burgundy. I have every intention of making this meal gourmet.
Back in the flat I turn the Sonos up loud and treat myself to a dose of Harper. Her music is uplifting. I relax into it. I must cook the chicken very carefully. Listeria has been increasingly found in supermarket chicken lately. The government have been issuing guidelines advising people to be very thorough. To be on the safe side I have taken Delia’s advice. Mother always says you can’t go wrong with Delia.
I peel the shallots, and fry them in butter, with garlic. Onions and garlic. They smell delicious. I cut up the chicken and add it to the pan, keeping the raw juice in a jug. When the chicken has browned, I add a bit more butter and the flour, the herbs, then I slowly, slowly add the wine. Forty-five minutes later the gravy is thick. It has reduced perfectly. The sweet smell of tarragon butter chicken permeates the flat. The lovebirds arrive home, hand in hand.
‘Supper is ready when you are,’ I announce.
You sit opposite one another, eyes locked, at the table I laid earlier. Sebastian, as is his habit, occasionally tears his eyes away from you to glance at me through the mirror above the table. When I am sure he isn’t watching I pour the raw chicken juice into his portion of the casserole and stir. I bring the food, already plated, to the table and hand it out.
Much to my dismay, just as you are about to start to eat, you swap portions. His portion is too small and yours too big, apparently. I try to stop you but I can’t. The right words just don’t materialise. I just don’t know how to explain.
93
Zara
I wake in bed, burning up like a furnace. Sweat pooling in all my crevices. I toss my side of the duvet away. My stomach feels as if I have swallowed a packet of nails. Nausea rises and I know I am about to be sick.
I leap out of bed and make a dash for the bathroom, arriving just in time to get most of my projectile vomit down the toilet. But some of it slimes across the bathroom floor, smelling of stale cheese. Its stench rises in my nostrils and makes me retch again. I strain every muscle in my stomach and neck. I retch so hard it seems as if my body wants to expel my innards. Somehow they manage to stay in place. I retch and retch until only coloured liquid comes out. No longer hot, I am shivering now. The retching softens and stops. But I feel so cold; my teeth are chattering, and my body won’t stop shaking.
I creep back to bed, and bury myself in my duvet. Within seconds I know I am about to vomit again, and that however cold I am, I can’t risk being away from the bathroom. I spend the rest of the night lying on a towel in the bathroom, bath sheet on top of me. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. Retch. Vomit. The longest, most uncomfortable night. Somewhere on the edge of my mind, I keep telling myself that in twelve hours I will start to improve.
But by morning I feel worse. The coloured liquid has turned back to vomit. Full-scale vomit. How can that have happened? All I have ingested is a few gulps of tap water. Every time I am sick, brown liquid spurts from my butt, like muddy water from a spout. I am so weak it is a major achievement to keep clearing the bathroom up. A knock on the bathroom door.
‘It’s Sebastian. Zara, let me in. Please.’
Legs like jelly, I pull myself to standing, open the door, and fall into his arms, not caring what I look or smell like. He comforts me by holding my head against his chest and stroking my hair.
‘Let’s hope it’s just a twenty-four-hour bug and you’ll feel better by tonight,’ he says.
His words do not cheer me. Twenty-four hours feels like an eternity of hell right now.
He takes me back to the bedroom, fluffs up my pillows and the duvet. I sink back into bed gratefully. He puts the washing-up bowl next to my bed in case I am sick again, and a jug of water and a glass on the bedside table. If he gets bored of accountancy perhaps he should become a nurse.
‘I’m off to work. I’ll ring you at lunchtime.’
He kisses me on the forehead and leaves. At first I feel a little cheered by his attention. But not long after he has gone, I feel cold. So cold. Losing feeling in my fingers and toes. Sinking into the bed as if I will never be able to get out. Pain paddling across my stomach like a razor. A knock on the door. This time it is you, Miranda, entering gingerly.
‘Zara, what’s happened?’
‘I must have a twenty-four-hour stomach bug, I’ve been vomiting so hard.’
Your face crumples. ‘I think we should go to see Dr Dale, as soon as possible,’ you say, voice stiff with concern.
‘For a stomach bug?’
You push your grey eyes into mine. ‘What if it’s something more serious like Listeria? What if it’s because I didn’t cook the chicken enough?’
‘How could it be? We all had the chicken. Only I was ill.’
Grey eyes darken. ‘Maybe you’re a bit run-down or something.’
‘Why would that be?’ I ask.
‘Stress?’
‘You’re more stressed than me right now.’
Too much talking. Nausea is rising. I head back to the bathroom at double speed.
94
Miranda
I ring in sick. I need t
o stay at home to look after you. I skip a shower, hurriedly pull on my clothes, and sit in the sitting room area listening for your every trip to the bathroom. The feral sound from your throat as you retch. Every time you are ill my stomach hurts and I feel sick in sympathy.
From time to time I pop into your bedroom to check on you, and ask whether I can get you anything. But every time I do, you frown and wave me away. At around three p.m. you emerge into the sitting room, face as white as your dressing gown. You look like a panda with black bags under your eyes. Your hands are trembling.
‘I don’t feel quite as bad as I did,’ you announce, sinking into the sofa opposite me like a rag doll.
‘I still think we should take you to the doctor; because you ate that chicken.’
‘But … But … Only I was ill.’
‘Maybe it just hit you first.’ I pause. ‘You are my precious sister. I’m not taking any risks.’ I stand up and pull my mobile out of my pocket. ‘I’m ringing the surgery right now.’
I sponge your face and help you into an old tracksuit. I rub your back as you lean across the toilet bowl and vomit again. I squeeze toothpaste onto your now overused toothbrush, and you clean your teeth.
The drive to the surgery is difficult. You hold your hand over your mouth as the car bumps over potholes and speed bumps. After I have parked the car, we move through the entrance into reception, arm in arm. At reception you vomit again and catch it in your hand. Together we go to the toilet and I help wash you.
A receptionist fetches a chair and asks you to sit in the corridor, away from other patients in case you are contagious. She hands you a cardboard sick bowl. I stand next to you, guilt increasing. I can only just bear to look at you. I could have coped with doing this to him, but seeing you like this is difficult.
Dr Dale calls you into her consulting room. Her usually high-pitched voice sounds like a Dalek’s over the tannoy.
‘Can I come in too?’ I ask.
You nod your head as you begin to pad wearily along the corridor. I hover behind you, bearing your bowl. We arrive at Dr Dale’s room and knock.
‘Come in,’ she says in her singsong voice.
We open the door and enter her consulting room. We stand in front of her, side by side. Dr Dale. Pastel blue coordinates today. A blue ruffled shirt. Fluffy blue cardigan. Dangly earrings made of blue glass.
‘Miranda. Zara. To what do I owe the pleasure of both of you?’
You collapse into the patient’s chair. I step forwards to stand at your side and take a deep breath.
‘I think I have given Zara Listeria poisoning by feeding her undercooked chicken,’ I announce dolefully.
You sit shivering, holding the paper bowl close to your mouth. You cannot even bear to open your eyes.
‘Only Zara?’ Dr Dale asks, looking across at me, concerned.
‘Only Zara,’ I reply. ‘I dealt with the portions separately.’
Dr Dale leans across to you and puts her hand on your arm.
‘How have you been feeling, Zara? What’s the problem?’
You explain very graphically. I feel ill just listening. Riddled with an ever-increasing weight of guilt.
‘Is there any chance you could be pregnant, Zara?’ Dr Dale asks softly.
You shake your head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Fine. That’s good. I’m giving you a seven-day course of tried and trusted antibiotics, just to make sure you have no infection in your gut.’ She pauses. ‘Don’t start taking them until you’ve stopped vomiting.’
Dr Dale taps on the keys of her computer, prints off the prescription, and hands it to you.
‘If anyone else is unwell please come straight back.’
You stand up slowly, wincing in pain as you move. I put my arm around you and guide you out of the consulting room.
Outside in the car park your iPhone pings. You pull it out of your pocket to read a text. A soft smile radiates across your face. ‘Sebastian’s a real brick. He’s taking next week off work to look after me.’ A deep sigh. ‘I think I love him more than ever. If that’s possible.’
My stomach tightens. Even though I’ve hurt the wrong person, I’m getting a week without having to put up with him at work. I look across at your love-infected face. Progress? Or is it? For someone who has been so ill, and looks as thin as a prepubescent ballet dancer, when you talked about Sebastian your voice was surprisingly loud. When will you understand? When will you use your common sense? As soon as possible, this man needs to go.
95
Sebastian
I sold our London flat, the home we so cherished. It was quirky, wasn’t it, Jude? Overlooking Regent’s Canal. You would jog along the canal to work. The flat was so stylish, with its glass coffee tables, and copious mirrors. Sometimes, when I least expect it, whatever I am doing, in my mind’s eye I am back there with you. Laughing together. Remembering the way your eyes crinkled in the corners when you laughed. The resonance of your voice. The gentle turn of your head. The peace I always felt when I was with you.
The funerals. I survived the funerals in a fug of alcohol and drugs: cocaine, methamphetamine, whisky, wine, Valium, skunk. Skunk so strong I hallucinated. Jumbling what I took, depending how low or high I felt, and which way I needed to go. I achieved my objective. I don’t remember the ceremonies. Not even the burials. But the impact of the crash never goes away. Nightmare after nightmare overwhelms me.
I couldn’t bear to give your belongings to a charity shop. Charity shops reek of death. Its sickly scent clings to my nostrils as soon as I enter. You had too much life in your every sinew to end up diluted there. So I bundled your possessions into old suitcases, and stored them in the loft of the Bristol house. One day, I will be brave enough to look at them. One day. Maybe twenty years from now. Surely by then the pain of losing you will have diminished? But my love for you will never go away.
THE PRESENT
96
Another legal visit from her rock star brief. Just lately he has been coming to see her every other week. Her major visitor. Mother has cut back a bit, because it’s such a long journey. Maybe that’s for the best. Seeing her mother quadruples her guilt, and she drags her guilt around very heavily. A dead weight that never lightens, that never leaves her. Except sometimes, when she is with her rock star brief. Sometimes, then, just for a few seconds, it lifts.
Theo Gregson is sitting opposite her today, pad and pen in his hands. She notices his slender fingers and short fingernails. Once again she imagines him on stage – handing his guitar to a stagehand and moving towards the piano, about to break up the rock music with a power ballad.
‘How’s your week been?’ he asks, interrupting her daydream. He asks this with concern, as if she is a friend, not a client. As if he really cares.
‘Not too bad,’ she replies. ‘And yours?’
‘The same.’ They laugh. ‘Well, I don’t suppose they can have been that similar,’ he admits.
‘Not unless you locked yourself in your house all week, unplugged the internet, and ate the most tasteless ready meals on the planet.’
‘No.’ His grin continues. ‘That didn’t happen.’
‘What did happen?’ she asks.
He leans back in his chair. ‘Not a lot. I’ve been in chambers trying to research your case. I’ve a couple of questions I need to ask.’
She sighs inside. ‘About Sebastian again?’ she asks, trying to keep her voice light.
‘How did you guess?’ he replies, laughing. ‘Well I’ll get straight to it then. Have you heard from him yet?’
His eyes are darker than usual – more serious now.
‘No. And I don’t want to,’ she tells him.
He scribbles in his pad, writing down her answer. ‘Is that because you’ve moved on from what happened between you?’ he asks.
‘It’s because I’ve accepted he doesn’t want to see me.’ She pauses. ‘I will never accept what happened between us.’
She almost bursts int
o tears. He leans forwards and takes her hand in his. She feels his warmth.
‘When are you going to tell me about it?’ he begs. She doesn’t reply. ‘Telling me would be cathartic. It would bring you comfort.’
Slowly, slowly she shakes her head. ‘Burying it deep is the only comfort I have.’ She swallows hard to push back the tears.
His amber eyes hold hers.
‘Truth is freedom. You’ve got to let it out.’
He sits staring at her, a frown rippling across his brow. Then his expression lightens a little. ‘I’m still trying to find out a bit more about Sebastian’s background.’
‘Have you made any progress?’ she asks.
‘Not yet. He’s an elusive man. No internet trail. I sometimes wonder whether his identity is fake.’ He pauses. ‘Run through what he said about himself again.’
She sighs heavily and shrugs her shoulders. ‘Again?’
‘Yes. Again please.’
‘He’s from Bristol. He went to Cambridge University. His parents are both doctors. PhD doctors we thought. Neither my sister nor I ever met his family. He didn’t want us to, and he didn’t seem to want to meet ours.’ She hears her words running together on automatic. She pauses. And then she continues, ‘Just occasionally, for a split second, you remind me of him.’
As soon as she says that she is not sure where it came from. Is it because Theo is good-looking? Or because, for a barrister, he seems rather maverick? Not what most people would expect. Too young. Too fun-loving. Too handsome.
‘Is that a compliment?’ he asks, eyes twinkling into hers.
‘I’m not sure I should answer that,’ she replies.
Eyebrows up. Mouth playing with a smile. ‘Why not? Would it give your game away?’ he asks.
‘What game?’
‘The game you play about the depth of your feelings for him.’
Guilt Page 16
