‘Well, who do you think it might have been?’
‘And here we go again! I suppose my auntie put them in there to kill you?’
‘Well, I can’t see who el—’
‘Were they black kittens, by any chance?’
‘No, they were tortoiseshell, why?’
‘Dunno. Thought it might be more witchcrafty or something if they were black.’
‘Oh, come on, stop that! Mark was with me. We both saw them. You can ask him if you don’t believe me.’
‘I’m not disputing you found some dead kittens.’
‘So who else could it be? There’s no one else around here.’
‘Maybe it was an accident.’
‘An accident?’ I look at Mark and shake my head. He pulls a face.
‘Yeah, maybe Distira doesn’t know what the tank is for. I mean, I don’t like it either, but people do drown kittens. Especially country folk.’
‘Oh, come on!’
‘She’s my auntie, CC. The same auntie who looked after me when I was little. When my own mother was too paralytic to do so. And she isn’t dropping bags of dead kittens in our water supply.’
‘Only she is. But you refuse to accept it.’
‘Jesus, CC. This is exactly why I haven’t called. You have an obsession with Distira. It’s all you talk about. Since the first day you met her.’
‘It’s not an obsession,’ I say, my voice quivering. ‘She’s a horrible old witch and she hates me, and—’
‘She’s my aunt. And you’re going on about it so much that I don’t even want to . . . She’s my only living relative. Why can’t you grasp that?’
‘You don’t even want to what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘And I do grasp that. But I also grasp that she has dumped a bag of dead kittens in our water tank.’
‘I can’t do this any more,’ Victor says.
‘So what, you’re hanging up on me again?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That’s exactly what I’m doing.’
Once the line goes dead, I sit and stare at Mark’s phone for a while before I hand it back. The aggregate of everything that has happened these last few weeks washes over me, and I feel myself becoming outraged by Victor’s behaviour towards me, the anger rising in waves. I have no idea why this is happening only now. Perhaps I was simply too ill before. Perhaps I have been intentionally suppressing thinking about it, the alternative too hard to face. But now that I’m letting myself feel those emotions, something big is snapping. Something fundamental.
I shake my head slowly, as much in amazement at my own passivity as at Victor’s behaviour.
‘That didn’t go well then,’ Mark says.
‘No,’ I reply – an understatement.
Mark arches his fingers around his nose and rests his elbows on the table. ‘So what now?’
‘Can you take me to the bar?’ I ask, a shock decision taken. ‘It’s about fifteen minutes away.’
‘The bar? Are we going to get slaughtered?’
‘Nope. They have internet. I’m going to book a flight.’
‘To where?’
‘I need to get away from here. Can I stay with you?’
Mark stares at me. He looks worried. ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘but I’m not sure that—’
‘I am,’ I interrupt. ‘I’m totally sure. I’m sick to death of Victor, and sick to death of this place. And if I don’t get away soon, I’ll be the one killing someone.’
‘Well in that case,’ Mark says.
After a few minutes’ discussion, we decide not to head for the bar after all. Mark, claiming that he wants to make the most of his mini-break, suggests a couple of nights in a cheap hotel he knows in Nice. I suspect that this is partly true, but that he is also hoping to use the delay to change my mind about leaving as well.
I leave a note for Victor saying that I’m sorry, but that I’m sick to death with the way he has been treating me, that I’ve had enough of not being taken seriously, and that I’m fed up with being stranded alone in an icy building site. I finish by telling him that I am off to England.
When I reread this, it sounds harsh, which I intended, but also a little too final. Some part of me that can see beyond the fury wants to leave the door ajar – so I add a second page saying that I still love him but that I need time to think.
I then throw a week’s worth of clothes into a bag, switch everything off, close the vents on the range, and declaring, ‘OK, get me outta here,’ I pull the front door closed behind us.
The sun is setting behind the mountain ridge as we pull away and my relief at leaving is such that it crosses my mind that I may never want to come back again.
We book into a twin room at the hotel – La Petite Sirène. It’s a small independent hotel run by a Swedish family – nothing fancy, and certainly not a patch on the Negresco, which we drive past to get there. But it’s reasonably priced and clean. And after La Forge, cleanliness feels like heaven.
The first thing I do is take a long, hot shower.
While Mark takes his turn in the bathroom, I open the laptop and use the hotel’s wifi to book myself onto the same Sunday night flight home. Faced with the option of booking a single or a return ticket, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a sense that I’m making a mistake – that buying a oneway ticket is, in some way, a one-way choice. But I tell myself that I’m just being dramatic, and that as soon as things calm down, I can just book another single to come back. And again, I try not to think about the fact that I simply can’t imagine ever wanting to do that – the fact that this feels like escape.
I have just clicked on the confirmation button when Mark appears from the shower. ‘You haven’t!’ he says, peering at the screen.
I nod. ‘Same flight as you.’
‘God,’ he says. ‘Victor’s gonna hate me.’
‘It’s just a break,’ I say, even though I’m not sure this is true. ‘So what are we doing tonight?’ I ask, feigning normality.
‘A spot of dinner somewhere. And then I think we should get trashed.’
‘Trashed?’ I say, pulling a face. Because the truth is that getting trashed is the last thing on my mind.
‘There was a time, not so long ago, when you and I did that every weekend,’ Mark points out. ‘And it was fun. Remember that?’
I think back to those days. They feel like they were years ago – almost like a different life. And I remember the fun we had together, and struggle to remember what it was that I didn’t like about it. It was the loneliness, I suppose. It was having a great time with Mark and everyone else and then finding myself alone at home, with my cat, in London. Strangely, the simplicity of a clean flat with running water and a purring cat seems quite appealing nowadays. How quickly things change.
I glance up at Mark, who is frowning at me as he hops into a tight pair of combat trousers. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’ve fallen out with Iain. You’ve fallen out with Victor. Getting splendidly drunk is the only logical thing to be done here.’
I nod thoughtfully. ‘OK. Getting trollied sounds like a great idea.’
SOMEONE JUST NEEDS TO STOP ME
I open my eyes and stare blearily at the ceiling. I think, That’s not my ceiling.
I attempt to swallow but my mouth is so dry that it’s a physical impossibility. I chew my tongue in an attempt at making some saliva but nothing happens – I’m too dehydrated.
I fidget in an attempt at getting comfortable and think, This isn’t my bed.
I roll to the left and am faced with a muscular, naked back and a crew-cut head.
I think, Shit! That’s not my boyfriend!
Shocked into wakefulness, I roll away, climb from the bed and pull a blanket around my naked body. The man groans and rolls onto his back.
‘Mark!’ I exclaim. ‘You’re in my bed. Why are you in my bed?’
‘Hmm?’ he grunts.
‘I . . . I need water,’ I say.
I fill a glass in the bathroom and return
to the relative safety of the armchair, where I sit and struggle to remember.
After a few minutes, Mark rolls onto his side and blinks at me. He makes a clicking noise with his tongue and says, ‘Water, please,’ and holds out an empty hand, so I fill a second glass for him and once he has sat up in bed, I hand it to him.
‘You’re hairy,’ I say.
‘Huh?’ he says, rubbing his chest with his free hand.
‘I don’t think I knew that,’ I say. ‘How can I not know that?’
‘I used to wax it,’ he says. ‘But Iain likes it this way, so . . .’
‘Anyway, you’re naked, in my bed,’ I say. ‘Why are you naked in my bed?’
Mark lifts the covers, peers underneath, and says, ‘I’m not quite naked.’
‘Why aren’t you in your bed?’
Mark sighs, sips his water, then says, ‘You wanted a cuddle. Don’t you remember?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I don’t remember. We didn’t . . . you know . . . do anything, did we?’
Mark laughs.
‘Don’t laugh at me!’
‘I’m gay, sweetie. And you have a vagina and huge breasts. What do you think happened?’
‘I don’t have huge breasts,’ I say, pulling a face.
‘Well, they’re too big for me,’ Mark comments.
‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘Good. I’m glad you’re gay and you don’t like breasts.’
‘You sound disappointed,’ he murmurs cheekily. ‘If you want, I could make an effort.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I say. ‘God, I don’t remember anything from last night. Except that first pub. The Irish place.’
‘Ma Nolan’s?’
‘Maybe. Jesus, that Irish crowd knew how to drink, didn’t they?’
‘They did.’
‘At one point I had a pint in my hand and two more lined up on the bar. It was like a bloody drinking competition. Did we go to a restaurant after that?’
‘No, that was later. Remember the Russian bar? And vodka shots. Do you remember those?’
‘Oh God, yes,’ I groan. ‘All different colours, weren’t they?’
‘And do you remember cuddling Vlaster? The Ukrainian guy. With the weedy little beard.’
‘Cuddling?’
‘Calm down. It was all very innocent. Well, fairly.’ Mark winks at me and scratches his chin, to mime the beard.
‘Oh God, I do. He was sweet. About twelve, but sweet.’
‘He was twenty, actually. He was hot on you, baby.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Really?’
‘Said he was into older chicks.’
‘Not sure how to take that,’ I say. ‘Was I bad?’
Mark shakes his head. ‘You were too pissed to be bad. We went to that Indian, do you remember?’
I shake my head.
‘The Delhi Belly,’ Mark says. ‘You must remember. We couldn’t stop laughing about the name. And Vlaster sat opposite you staring into your eyes, hanging on your every word.’
‘Stop it!’
‘Until you vommed on him.’
‘I didn’t!’
‘Well, not on him, as such. In the street outside. It was a lucky escape, though. I think he was about to kiss you. A few seconds later and it could have been a disaster.’
‘I can’t believe I did that,’ I groan.
‘Believe it.’
‘What happened next?’
‘I brought you back here in a taxi.’
‘And I cried?’
‘That was later. When I got back.’
‘Jesus, Mark. Where did you go?’
‘D’you remember the Jewish guy? Dan?’
I shake my head.
‘Nah. You were too busy wooing Vlaster.’
‘I was not wooing anyone.’
‘Anyway, I went back to Dan’s.’
‘For a bit of how’s-your-father?’
‘For sex, yeah. Supposedly,’ Mark says. He yawns and stretches.
‘Was it no good, then?’ I ask.
Mark shakes his head. ‘Totally frigid. A religious thing, I think.’
‘Religious?’
‘As in, if I don’t move, then it isn’t a sin. I got bored after ten minutes and came back. But to be honest, I wasn’t that into it. I was just trying to do this whole open-relationship thing.’
‘God.’
‘I know. I’m a tramp.’
‘No, I mean, God I feel dreadful.’
‘I bet you do.’
‘Don’t you?’ I ask. ‘You look OK.’
‘You drank me under the table.’
‘I was stupidly trying to keep up with the Cork guys.’
‘And I was trying to stay sober enough to shag Dan senseless. Waste of a good drinking opportunity.’
‘Ugh.’
‘Oh, and you had better check your phone,’ Mark says, grimacing. ‘You kept texting Victor.’
‘Oh Jesus! I didn’t.’
Mark nods solemnly, so I shakily manage to stand, cross the room, and pull my phone from my jacket pocket. I sink back into the armchair and poke at the screen until the list of sent messages appears.
Victor. I live you but you’re mean to me. Why baby?
‘Oh hell,’ I mutter. ‘Why didn’t you stop me?’
Your ant is a which and you need to believe me. She is dangerous.
‘Shameful and illiterate,’ I mutter.
‘I tried to stop you,’ Mark says. ‘In fact, every time I saw you doing it, I stopped you. But you were surprisingly tenacious.’
I’m sorry but in leaving. I need a brake.
‘God,’ I say. ‘They need to build an alcohol test or something into these to stop this kind of thing.’
So hurt that you can bee this way. You dent love me. You can’t.
‘At least I got “can’t” right,’ I mutter. ‘That could have been awful.’
I never sine up for this bowl locks anyway.
Goodbye baby. Love you but hat farm.
‘Love you but hat farm?’ I say out loud. ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
‘Show me,’ Mark says.
‘No! Oh! Hate farm.’
Ts Rubbish. Am very drink. Don’t listen. Am going sick now.
I gingerly place the phone on the arm of the chair and cup my hands over my face. ‘God, what’s he going to think?’
‘If you don’t show me, I can’t help,’ Mark says.
I shake my head and toss him the phone.
Mark starts to read the messages ‘Classic,’ he says, grinning.
‘It’s not funny, Mark. Is there any way to . . .’
‘Delete them? No. Not once they’re sent.’
‘Fuck. Someone just needs to stop me sometimes.’
‘It’s easier said than done,’ Mark says. In response, I simply groan. And then my mouth fills with saliva, and I run to the bathroom.
Our hangovers, well, my hangover, preclude any notion of an enjoyable weekend of tourism. But Mark, feeling somewhat responsible for my sorry state, is suitably sympathetic and undemanding. In the end we do little more than wander to the nearest restaurant for large bowls of stomach-lining pasta, and then on to a sea-view café for afternoon tea. Here, Mark tells me in detail about his dispute with Iain, and I give him a detailed account of the build-up to my own predicament. But neither of us attempts to come up with answers.
In the evening, I finally pluck up the courage to talk to Victor, but his phone is yet again switched off, so I resort to sending a text, which hopefully he will see before he reads the others.
Please delete my drunken texts, or just ignore their contents. I was pissed off my head, and it’s meaningless babble. Personally, I blame Mark. Love you. xxx
Whether Victor sees any of the messages, I don’t know. The only thing that is certain is that he never replies.
The hangover exacerbates my natural propensity for drama, leaving me feeling utterly depressed about my prospects of ever fixing things up with Victor again. Bo
th Mark and I attempt to talk down our respective relationship crises, but just as Mark can’t see how his own situation – a boyfriend who refuses to be faithful – can ever be resolved, a part of me that I’m trying desperately to ignore is acknowledging that the ground has shifted unexpectedly beneath my own feet and the dream of nest-building in La Forge and living off the land has turned into a nightmare from which my only true desire is to escape. And unless something happens to shift that – something my mind can’t even begin to imagine right now – then we are, basically, doomed.
FOR EACH THOUGHT, AN EMOTION
When we get back to London, it’s a cold sunny day, not dissimilar to the weather we left behind us in Nice.
Once we’re seated side-by-side on the Gatwick Express, I ask, ‘It’s not going to be a war-zone, is it?’
Mark shakes his head. ‘Of course not. Iain’s nothing if not polite.’
I pull a face.
‘What?’ Mark asks.
‘What you’re saying is that even if he doesn’t want me there, he won’t say so.’
Mark shrugs. ‘Who gives a fuck? I want you there. It’s where I live too.’
The woman opposite, a severely overweight twenty-something, who is munching her way through a packet of Jaffa Cakes, is staring at me as she listens intently to our conversation. There is something aggressive about her regard that annoys me, so I give her a good stare back, and after a few nauseating seconds where I have to look at the half-eaten mush in her open mouth, she pops another Jaffa Cake in and turns to look at the view instead.
‘I can still phone SJ and go stay at my place, that’s all I’m saying,’ I say, returning my attention to Mark.
He shakes his head dismissively. ‘We have a spare room; it makes sense. And Iain won’t mind, I know he won’t. And I want you to come and stay. I’ve missed you like crazy.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘We’ll see how it goes.’
‘Just don’t mention his tricks.’
‘He doesn’t bring them back, does he? I mean, we aren’t going to surprise him in bed with—’
‘No,’ Mark interrupts. ‘But if he goes out or something, don’t ask where he’s been. That’s the minefield in our relationship.’
The French House Page 25
