The Sunday Girl

by Pip Drysdale

  Shit.

  ‘Oh, that’s kind, but totally unnecessary,’ I said, a tight smile on my face.

  ‘No, it would be my pleasure. Let me know when suits you,’ he countered. I was thrown by the overt nature of his invitation. He wasn’t even hiding it. My pulse sped up. Can Val tell?

  ‘Sure, let me check my calendar,’ I offered.

  ‘Great,’ he said.

  ‘Great,’ I repeated, trying not to look at him or at Val. ‘Well, we best get back to it.’

  ‘Okay,’ said David as he watched me awkwardly gather the papers into a pile, smile and stand up. Val followed me to the door, then David did the same. She shook his hand as we walked him to the reception area. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Instead I smiled curtly and headed for the elevator.

  ‘Did he just ask you out on a date?’ Val whispered as she joined me by the lift.

  ‘No. Of course not,’ I replied, pressing and re-pressing the up button, my face aching from fake smiles. ‘Isn’t he married?’

  ‘Probably,’ she replied, ‘but you know men. They turn on a dime. Just look at Angus.’

  I smiled yet again and said nothing. Val had witnessed the fallout from Angus on a more moment-to-moment basis than anyone. She was not a big fan and I wasn’t looking forward to telling her we were back together.

  ‘Still, he is a client. If he insists on dinner, I’ll come along as chaperone,’ she laughed. ‘That will shut him up.’

  ‘So. What the fuck?’

  That was Charlotte. ‘I mean: what the actual fuck?’ she repeated with animation, the gin and tonic in her hand splashing out of the glass. We were at a little wine bar in Leicester Square, a downstairs hole-in-the-wall place that smelled like a pet shop, had walls covered in Parisian posters and was easily missed by those blinded by the blinking lights of the theatre district and the pigeons of Trafalgar Square. All the regulars were British, and most of them academics of some sort. But despite the venue, Charlotte was a gin girl, through and through. I had a big glass of Malbec in front of me and was sipping on it, carefully choosing the right words for my reply.

  ‘I know he’s been awful,’ I started, ‘he even admits to that. But he’s … he’s in NA,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘He’s got a sponsor and everything. I really think it’ll be different now.’

  I wanted her to be happy for me but she looked worried. She’d never fallen for Angus’s charms the way I had, and he’d never fallen for hers. Instead, he’d always accused her of poisoning the well, of turning me against him, but she didn’t, she was just worried about me.

  ‘People don’t change,’ she said, her forehead crinkling, ‘not forever, at least. And he can’t blame everything on drugs, babe. That’s a total cop-out.’ She slurped back the rest of her gin then sat sucking on an ice cube, I could see it pushing against her cheek as it melted. Charlotte was marijuana’s greatest advocate and didn’t take kindly to people speaking ill of drugs.

  ‘I really hope you’re wrong,’ I said, looking down at the wooden table and taking a sip of my wine. It looked purple in the dim light and clung to the edge of the glass like mussels to a rock pool.

  ‘I hope so too,’ she said. ‘But, babe. Seriously. I mean, take the tape and all the mind games out of it – he still took that other girl away skiing.’

  This was why I’d never told Charlotte about the slap; about him grabbing me by the throat. She didn’t know Angus the way I did: she’d only ever seen the dazzling façade he showed the world. She’d never seen the anguish in his eyes when he realised what he’d done. She couldn’t possibly understand.

  ‘I know, but I sort of did the same thing,’ I said. I needed her to accept us getting back together.

  ‘How? You mean the lawyer guy?’

  Jamie, David, revenge …

  ‘Him … and someone else,’ I said, crinkling my nose.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Friday night. This client from work was at the restaurant I had my shitty date at.’

  And then Charlotte laughed. Loudly. ‘Well, that’s made my night. Well done, babe – serves fucking Angus right.’

  She looked around and motioned to the waitress for another drink as my phone buzzed from the table. I looked down at the screen: When will you be back? Miss you. A xx

  Charlotte turned back just as I picked it up; she didn’t see the screen but she knew who it was from. She sighed, smiled, looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘I know I can’t talk you out of getting back together with him, but just be careful, okay?’ Then she held up her hand, baby finger out.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, reaching my hand out to meet hers.

  And we pinky swore.

  tuesday

  Master Sun said: ‘Two armies may confront each other for several years for a single, decisive battle.’

  14 FEBRUARY

  One hand was grabbing the back of my hair, the other was on my hipbone holding me in position as he moved. I was bent over, facing the mirror, and he was inside me. I’d just woken up and hadn’t been ready, so I winced from the pain. But he’d woken me up like this many times before and I’d always liked it. There was no way he could know that all I wanted right now was for him to hold me, that I wanted something different for us this time.

  ‘Look how pretty you are,’ he said, gently pulling my hair back so I could see my face in the mirror.

  I wasn’t pretty. I looked tired, the night before tattooed on my face: puffy eyes and dry, wine-stained lips. But that didn’t matter. Because the man inside me was not just any man. It was Angus. And not just any Angus. The Angus I’d fallen in love with, the one I’d always believed he still was deep down beneath the muck. The same man who, when I cut my finger with a handheld food processor while making him a cake one Sunday early in our relationship – vanilla sponge – bandaged me up, kissed it better, helped me ice the cake, and then ate it. Blood and all. Like it didn’t matter one bit. The one who’d programmed, ‘Love you!’ as a daily reminder on my phone. And it was such a relief to finally have him back.

  When I’d got home the night before – I was even referring to his apartment as ‘home’ again – he’d been waiting for me. We’d cuddled on the sofa sipping camomile tea. He’d wrapped his arms around me, I’d leaned back into the warmth of his chest and he’d asked me about my day: how Charlotte was, whether Val had been impressed by my Eastbourne idea, whether I was happy to be back together with him. And then we’d talked about other things too: about the breakup. About how sorry he was. About how much pain I’d been in – how much it had hurt me to see him with Kim in that photo. To know that he’d betrayed me in such an intimate way with that sex tape. I lowered the shield from my heart that night, and really let him in.

  Though not all the way in.

  Was I tempted by the relief of a full confession? Yes. But Charlotte’s words rang sharp and bell-like in my ears: Just be careful, okay? So I was. I kept my secrets: the prostitutes, Felicia next door, my break-and-enter while he was away, Jamie and David. But they were all sitting there at the forefront of my mind, reminding me of my own misdemeanours. And maybe that’s why I missed it – it was like a magic show, where you’re so busy focusing on the magician’s hands that you don’t see his assistant place the bunny in the hat. And so the return of rough sex didn’t pose the warning to me that it could have.

  He started moving faster. His grip tightened and he pulled my hair. Hard. My neck strained and I struggled to breathe.

  ‘Ow, baby, you’re hurting me,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry,’ he grunted, and his hand released.

  I let my head dangle, my neck grateful for the rest. Eyes closed, I searched for a hidden image, a feeling, anything, to turn me on. Anything to lessen the friction. I could hear him breathing heavily behind me and hoped that meant it was almost over. My mind sorted frantically through its many trash cans: there must be something here somewhere. But the things that turn me on have always been so abstract and elusive, and so
hard to find on demand: whispered words, unbroken promises, shared secrets. So, I was searching frantically, but coming up empty.

  But then, just as I was about to give up and ask him to stop, I found something: it was on our last holiday, just before Christmas. We’d escaped the London winter to Gran Canaria for five days. I was wearing my orange string bikini and one of his T-shirts, sitting on the white balcony drinking coffee with the warm morning light on my legs. He was standing looking out at the view – the water sparkling blue in the bay, sand turned yellow by the tide, guava walls, palm trees and tiny tourists laying towels out on the beach in the distance – and he’d looked over at me and said: ‘I think we’re really going to make it, darling. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.’ Things had been rocky over the months before that moment, and we’d made the tape with Holly shortly before leaving on holiday. But as soon as those syllables hit my eardrums it felt like agreeing to that threesome had been the best idea of my life – it seemed to have brought us back to that great place again. That warm place I’d missed so much.

  ‘Me too,’ I’d said, smiling and sipping my coffee.

  And then he’d walked over to me, leaned down and kissed the top of my head and said, ‘Though, come to think of it, I’m not sure it’s you I really want, it’s that orange string bikini. I might just have to take it.’ He’d put his hands under my T-shirt and pulled the string on my back, and the knot came loose.

  ‘Well, we come as a package deal, I’m afraid,’ I’d said, looking up at him. And he’d smiled.

  ‘Done.’ Then he’d led me by my hand to the bed.

  ‘You like that, don’t you, baby,’ he said, breaking my chain of thought. My eyes reopened, his pace quickened, his moans deepened and then it was over. He wove his arm around my waist, lifted my torso to vertical and kissed me on the back of the neck.

  ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, darling,’ he said. And then he wandered through to the shower. I lay back down in bed. Just two minutes. Then I’ll get ready. I was raw, but happy.

  The shower faucet turned on. The hot water pipes creaked. His voice echoed against the bathroom tiles; he was trying to sing. My ears strained to identify the melody.

  ‘Feeling good …’

  He was singing our song.

  ‘Mum, stop it! Can’t you just be happy for me?’

  ‘How? Tell me how am I supposed to be happy for you?’ she replied. ‘He’s an absolute shit.’

  We were two minutes into the call I’d been dreading. I’d dropped the bomb after one, and her voice had been escalating in volume and pitch ever since.

  ‘I know he hasn’t always been great, but he …’

  ‘He what?’ she demanded.

  ‘He’s changed. He’s really trying.’ I was standing in the kitchen; it was one of the only places in the building with cell reception. And so my voice was low.

  ‘People don’t change, sweetheart,’ she said, ‘they just pretend.’

  ‘Look, it’s complicated with Angus, there are other things going on, things you don’t know about,’ I said, facing away from the office area.

  ‘Sweetie, life is complicated. How people deal with difficulties is how you judge their character. Not how they deal with things when everything is hunky dory.’

  She was right.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I know why you’re worried, I get it,’ I said, ‘but I really feel like it will be different this time.’

  She was quiet. I could hear her swallow. ‘I’m just really scared for you, honey.’

  The middle of my chest hurt. ‘Mum, it will be okay,’ I said. An image of her huddled on the sofa – shaking, crying, in a way I’d never seen her – flashed in front of me. It was just after she discovered the truth about my father. And it haunted me.

  ‘I hope so,’ she replied. ‘I really hope so.’ Her voice sounded so fragile and I wanted to reassure her. Because I knew what she was thinking. I could hear it without her even saying the words.

  ‘Angus isn’t Dad, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t say he was,’ she replied, defensive.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. I didn’t want to fight, I just wanted the call to be done and dusted.

  Her deep disappointment robbed me of air. I knew she didn’t like him. And I knew why. But I loved him. And I believed in him. And I thought things would be different. I really did.

  ‘Well, that’s great news then, darling,’ she said, trying to sound happy. And that hurt far more than her concern.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, smiling hard so she could hear it through the phone.

  ‘You’ll have to come out here for dinner, the two of you,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen Angus in months.’

  ‘We will,’ I said. ‘Mum, please don’t worry.’

  ‘I can’t help it, darling, I’m your mother. It’s my job to worry.’

  I gave a half-laugh in response.

  ‘Just promise me one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘If he gets violent again, you leave.’

  ‘Okay, but he’s not going to,’ I said.

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘But yes, I promise I’ll leave.’

  My mother was the only person I had told about Angus slapping me. I hadn’t told her everything, though. Not about the rough sex that landed me at the GP. Or the time he banged my head against the wall, holding me there by the throat as I gasped like a goldfish. How could I possibly tell my mother something like that?

  Loving Angus, and all the secrets it required, was the most exquisite sort of loneliness I’d ever felt. And somehow that made me feel even closer to him.

  But I wasn’t stupid.

  I knew it wasn’t good that Angus had a temper and a habit of shutting me out. It’s just that when I’d read stories in magazines about women in abusive relationships, they’d had broken bones and black eyes. The signs were clear. Mine weren’t – not to me, at least. Which left me questioning whether I was being melodramatic and unfair to him. Whether maybe it really was because I pushed him too far. I knew I talked back when I could have stayed quiet. And I reasoned with myself that it was true: the cocaine did make the whole thing worse. So it made sense that now that he was clean, now that he finally saw there was a problem, it really would be different. Because the way he’d acted wasn’t him, it was just his behaviour. And, I reasoned, behaviour could be changed.

  That explanation also accounted for the fact that the man I’d come to know and love was so different from the Angus he’d become. And it explained why the Angus who turned up on my doorstep, clean and sober – roses in his hands and tears in his eyes – was his better self again. His loving self. And it was the first time he’d ever made such a big stand for me. It felt like progress, so I intended to stand by him in return.

  He’d go to Narcotics Anonymous. I’d be supportive and loving. We’d get back on track.

  And in our case, everything really would be different this time.

  I hung up and moved back to my desk.

  Val smiled at me as I approached. I was dreading telling her too, so I decided to hold off for a day or so, let her focus on getting Citexel to talk to us. She’d taken over trying to arrange the meeting: her title had more clout than mine.

  ‘Two pm today,’ she said, grinning at me as I sat down. I looked at her, confused. ‘David Turner, we got him in to speak to Citexel.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ I said, glancing at the time: 10.52am.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, watching me. Then she added: ‘And Angus called for you.’

  Fuck.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, staring at my screen.

  ‘Back together?’ she asked. She was frowning: she already knew the answer.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, well, he’d better not mess it up again,’ she said, rolling back to her side of the partition. A faulty bulb flickered above me. I picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘Good morning, Candice speaking.’ Her voice was irritable,
as though she’d been interrupted in the middle of performing complicated mental arithmetic.

  ‘Hi Candice, can I speak to Angus, please?’ I asked.

  ‘May I ask who is calling?’ she asked. Bitch. She knew exactly who it was – we’d spoken on the phone countless times.

  ‘It’s Taylor,’ I replied, ‘returning his call.’

  ‘One moment,’ she said.

  And a moment later I was connected.

  ‘Baby?’ Angus said.

  ‘Hey,’ I replied.

  ‘Hey darling, I really wanted us to do something special tonight, but I … well, there’s a meeting I want to go to,’ he whispered. ‘I’m struggling a bit. A lot.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘of course.’ It was Valentine’s Day and I’d thought we’d spend it together, but an NA meeting mattered more.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘I know it’s Valentine’s Day and all.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘What time will you be back? Should I come over later or stay at mine?’

  ‘I’ll probably be quite late. Need to come back here and do a bit more work after the meeting – trying to keep in everyone’s good graces what with the credit card debacle. Fucking nightmare. Maybe we should leave it till tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘of course.’

  ‘Oh shit – sorry, darling, I hate to ask you this, but do you mind going past mine on your way home? I have Elena coming in the morning and what with everything going on I know I’ll forget to go past a cash machine. There’s a card to the other account in the top drawer of my study – can you go draw some money for her? Actually, can you draw out a thousand pounds? I have no cash on me at all at the moment.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but I don’t have your –’

  ‘Four-five-four-one,’ he whispered into the phone. And with that one swift manoeuvre, that one show of ultimate trust, another piece of my armour fell to the floor. Give trust to get trust, I guess.