by Dawn Goodwin
She had said on the phone just yesterday when I had called to cancel our Zumba class that she was worried I was taking on too much. She knew what she was talking about. She had been privy to the gossip when we had first met and had appointed herself as my own personal bodyguard against the slings and arrows that had come at me in those first few months. I had felt obliged to tell her my side of the story over one too many glasses of Sauvignon Blanc one night, but rather than feeling lighter through my confession, I had come to feel as though her knowledge of my biggest regret had become a weapon of sorts in her hands, something she brought up when she felt me pulling away from her or getting ahead of myself – as I apparently was now. The similarities between her and Paul were startling, but she would be horrified if I ever pointed out that she was just like him. She was one of those friends who felt it necessary to keep you in your box so that she felt better about her own life. Paul treated me similarly by using my guilt and sense of indebtedness to him to keep me contained and disciplined, at his beck and call.
Sam was different. He was funny, engaging and generous with his knowledge and time. Our meetings had quickly become the highlight of my week and a tonic for my soul, and I think the same could be said of him. He seemed to take pleasure in seeing me excel. I quickly came to realise that there was an underlying vulnerability and pain that lurked behind his outward persona that was never discussed, but I could feel him relaxing and unwinding more every time we met. Knowing that he seemed to get as much out of our arrangement as I did helped to alleviate the guilt of my duplicity.
I was also very much aware that my feelings for him threatened to develop beyond a harmless crush into more dangerous territory and I was determined to get a handle on that before it got out of hand. I was not looking for any additional drama in my life and, since the night of the party, he had never given me any indication that he felt the same. I knew part of what I was feeling was about being liberated, both emotionally and creatively, when I was with him rather than an attraction to Sam himself and I was careful to keep it all above board. Paul may not be perfect, but he was still my husband and I knew first-hand how an affair could destroy a family at its very core.
So I concentrated as much as possible on the reason behind our meetings, determined as I was to be a diligent, open-minded student who soaked up every drop of his expertise. As a result, we covered a lot of groundwork with my novel, the ideas coming to me thick and fast, although he was still reticent to show me what he was working on, even though I repeatedly asked if I could help. On that score there was impatience in his tone when I brought it up and I decided not to push him on it.
Today, as we sat on the couch, he seemed quieter than usual. We were working on my narrative timeline, plotting it linearly on large A3 pieces of paper so that I could see where there were glaring holes.
‘Is everything ok?’ I asked after catching him gazing out of the window.
He pulled his eyes back to me. ‘Oh, don’t mind me, just plenty on my mind today.’
‘Should I go? We can do this another time.’ My heart sank at having to pack up and leave already though.
‘No, of course not! You do me more good being here than not. I’m being selfish, I apologise. I tell you what, let’s take a break. I have a little something for you anyway.’
‘Ok,’ I said tentatively. The last time he gave me something it was an expensive laptop.
He got to his feet and disappeared into the kitchen, then returned with a platter in his hand.
‘Remember our Snapchat the other day? When you said you’d never tried sushi after I’d been to that new restaurant?’ I did remember. Lily had recently introduced me to the Snapchat trend and Sam and I had had a laugh setting up a ‘streak’, as the kids called it. What I liked the most about Snapchat was the fact that the messages disappeared, so if Paul ever did get suspicious and look at my phone, there would be nothing of relevance for him to see. I was becoming quite the covert operative.
The platter was covered in various types of sushi and I laughed out loud. This was another of the quirks of our friendship. He found it amusing that my working class upbringing meant I had not discovered certain delicacies such as caviar and sushi. Not only had he become my teacher in all things literary, but also in the ways of the upper classes.
‘These are California rolls and nigiri maki,’ he said, pointed out the intricate and beautiful rolls and shapes before me. ‘And that,’ he pointed to a small pot of neon green paste, ‘is the star of the show, the acidic assassin that is wasabi. Use it sparingly.’
I copied him as he dipped and prepped, then popped the entire roll in his mouth. The wasabi did indeed burn like acid and I coughed and retched as it caught at the back of my throat. Sam found this hilarious and before long his forlornness was forgotten and I was crying with laughter too.
Last week he had opened an expensive bottle of wine (without divulging its true cost) and showed me how to taste properly, the swillings and ruminations supposedly revealing different flavours and tones. Paul liked wine but didn’t like to spend too much money on it, while Sam enjoyed the expensive offerings without flinching at the price tag. The wine was like silk on my tongue and I allowed myself two glasses before reluctantly passing on a third, conscious that I had to head home to my husband afterwards. Sam paired the wine with a variety of cheeses and went about describing the difference between them and how the wine could change their flavour. I told him that the cheese all smelled like feet and tasted like I had licked a dog’s arse and that the wine just tasted like wine. I thought he’d be offended, but instead he guffawed and told me that he couldn’t banish the Geordie in me in one afternoon.
The cultural differences between us were indeed marked, but it became a weird common ground as I became an Eliza Doolittle of sorts. He would talk to me about plays he had seen, exhibitions he had attended and restaurants he’d tried, and I wished I could go to them with him. It didn’t cross my mind to see if Paul would be interested in coming with me to see any of these plays or to eat at any of the restaurants Sam mentioned. Paul was more of a cup of tea while napping in front of a National Geographic documentary with an iPad on his chest kind of man and certainly not known for extravagance. And part of me wanted to keep these little experiences just between Sam and I. It wouldn’t be the same with Paul.
In return, I educated Sam on the trashy American TV programmes I liked and my love of EastEnders inherited from my TV addict mother. I told him about chips doused in curry sauce and introduced him to young adult authors that Lily liked to read. As a result, he became engrossed in The Hunger Games series of books.
Essentially, I felt enriched when I was with Sam, my eyes opened to a world outside Hampton Hill and the confines of my slightly overgrown border shrubs. He was becoming more of a real friend than anyone else in my life because he saw me for what I was and what I could be, not what I was supposed to be.
What I did struggle to get my head around was Viola. Although we had not seen each other again since that afternoon when Sam and I were working, she had begun to foster a sort of relationship with me herself by emailing me articles on the writing process she thought I would find interesting and texting me to comment on some of my writing that Sam had apparently shown her. I increasingly realised I had been quick to judge her because her emails were warm, friendly and showed a distinctly softer side than I had seen so far.
All in all, for the first time in a very long while, I was happy.
That happiness did not go unnoticed at home. Paul came home early from work one Thursday and I had only just got through the door, packed the kids’ schoolbags into the cupboard under the stairs from where they had abandoned them in the doorway and started knocking up some healthy snacks for them. There’d been another note on the mat, but I didn’t even read it this time, just shoved it in my pocket and carried on as though it was never there. I wouldn’t let this coward of a bully ruin things for me. I stubbornly turned on the radio and sang along to an ei
ghties classic as I cut up cucumber batons and dished out rice cakes. Nothing like the snacks I used to have after school, which mostly involved a packet of salt and shake crisps and a quarter of midget gems from the newsagents as I walked home.
My new laptop was still tucked away in my backpack, but when I heard the key in the front door and Bo bark, I panicked, my mouth drying up and the song freezing in my throat. My hand automatically reached around to feel the paper in my pocket.
‘You’re home early! Hi!’ I said in a prim falsetto as Paul wandered into the kitchen, loosening his tie while Bo yapped at his feet. He looked weary, his usually neat, greying hair standing up in tufts and his brow pulled tight.
‘My meeting was cancelled while I was on my way there, so I came home instead. Get me a coffee, would you?’ I could feel the euphoric hangover from my meeting with Sam fizzling away.
Lily and Jack heard his voice and barrelled into the room, flinging their arms around him. ‘Daddy, you’re home early!’
He pushed them off, saying, ‘Yes, yes, but let’s keep the noise down. Daddy has a headache.’
‘Guys, give Daddy his fifteen minutes of quiet time, please. Go on in the lounge and I will bring your snacks through to you.
‘No, I don’t want crumbs in the lounge. Stay here, I’m going into my study,’ Paul said, then looked closely at me. ‘You look pretty today. Have you changed your hair?’
‘Well, I washed and styled it this morning…’ I blushed at the unexpected compliment and at knowing that I hadn’t done it for him.
‘I like it,’ he said and left the room.
I busied myself with making his coffee but knew my relaxed afternoon had now come to an abrupt end.
As I knocked on the study door and entered, I found him sitting slumped in his chair, his hand propping him up. I handed over his mug and said, ‘Everything okay? You don’t seem yourself.’
‘Headache, that’s all,’ he mumbled and took a sip from the mug. ‘Is there sugar in this?’
‘Sorry, I thought you were cutting back.’
He pushed to his feet with a sigh and stomped back into the kitchen, mug in hand. I followed like a faithful dog. The kids had retreated to the lounge out of the way, taking Bo with them, for once not pestering about how hungry they were and happy to wait for their snacks. Paul had a strange way of dictating the mood in our house within seconds of walking through the door.
Taking his mug from him, I spooned some sugar into it and stirred it through. ‘There’s some ibuprofen in the cupboard over there.’
He kicked off his brogues and left them abandoned where they lay, then walked over to the cupboard in his stockinged feet. ‘Why is the underfloor heating on? It’ll cost a fortune and it’s not that cold yet.’
‘Sorry, I just felt a bit chilly and wanted to warm the kitchen up. I’ll turn it down.’
I watched him as he rummaged in the cupboard, clamping down on the sigh I could feel wanted to escape. I pulled my cardigan close.
He pulled out the tub of ibuprofen and managed to dislodge a few more pill packets too. Picking them up, he began to shove them back into the cupboard, then his hand stilled on a long white box. He pulled the sleeve of pills from the box and studied it. I stopped breathing.
‘You haven’t been taking these.’
‘Well, I… er… because I’m feeling really good at the moment. I’m writing a bit and it’s proving very therapeutic, so I thought I would take a break from them, see how I get on.’ My voice was quiet.
‘Did you run it past Dr Hathaway? What does she think?’
‘No, I didn’t. I haven’t seen her in a while.’
He threw the pill box onto the counter. ‘God, Katie, you know you need to take them! We don’t want you relapsing, do we? I don’t think I could go through all that again. And you can’t just go cold turkey. You know there are side-effects – paranoia, insomnia, headaches.’ He ran his hands through his hair, making it stand up even more. ‘You have seemed on edge lately, don’t you think? Preoccupied and twitchy. That’ll be why.’
I had forgotten to take my pills three days ago when I was distracted with rushing out the door to meet Sam, then I’d decided to try going without them altogether since I was feeling so euphoric. I had been struggling to sleep since I’d stopped taking them, but rather than it being a problem, the early hours of the morning proved to be a fantastic time to write when the world was quiet, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Paul. I made sure I was back in bed and asleep (or pretending to be) by the time he woke up each morning because I knew he wouldn’t understand.
‘But it’s different this time. I feel in control, happy – that’s what the writing means to me. I’m excited about it and I think I can do without the pills now.’
‘Katie, you know you aren’t strong enough without them. And the writing will only put you under more pressure. Now, please just take your pills and we’ll say nothing more about it.’ He was glaring at me, challenging me with every word. He held out the box and rattled it at me. ‘I’m only thinking of what’s best for you.’
I paused, considered whether it was worth the argument, then stepped forward and took the box from him.
‘There’s a good girl,’ he said, running his hand over my hair like he did when he was petting Bo. ‘I really do like your hair like that,’ he added, tilting my chin up with his thumb, then he turned his back to put the Nurofen pot back in the cupboard.
I closed my eyes for a moment, my teeth tight in my jaw, then pushed the pills into my palm before putting the box back down on the countertop. I went to fill a glass of water at the kitchen sink, feeling his eyes on my back, before the tension in the air was expelled like a deflating balloon as he left the room. Once I was sure he was gone, I washed the pills down the sink.
*
27 March 1996
I did it. I slept with Darren. God, I hope Mam never reads this. He invited me back to his mam’s after taking me to the cinema for my birthday. I didn’t realise we would have the house to ourselves and I wasn’t sure, but I also wanted to stop Melissa from sniffing around him. He swears nothing happened with her, but I don’t believe him. Anyway, it was quick and uncomfortable and nothing worth writing about. I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. I felt a bit weird afterwards, like my body and my mind weren’t together any more, like my body was separate to me. He was the same afterwards. Actually, he was nicer than normal, like he was grateful or something, so I think I did the right thing. For him anyway; not sure about me. Too late now.
In other news, I finally had a breakthrough with my writing. I sent a short story through to Girl Magazine a few months ago and totally forgot about it, but then got a letter today to say they’ll be publishing it in their next issue and that I’ve won £50! My first payment for my writing! Mam was actually quite proud of me, I think, and it was so nice to see her smile for a change. I said I’d give her the money so that she could treat herself to something nice. She won’t do it, but I could see she was chuffed.
Maybe that’s why I let Darren sleep with me – I was just in a really nice place and wanted to carry on making people happy.
But now all I can think about is how proud Dad would’ve been about the story – and how I don’t ever want to be as lonely as Mam is.
12
Helen and I headed out to walk the dogs the next morning and I invited her to come over after school so that the kids could hang out and we could share a bottle of wine. We hadn’t done that in ages and she accepted eagerly, which made me feel dreadful for inadvertently pushing her aside over the last couple of weeks. I’d missed her, even if our conversations were superficial and shallow compared to those I shared with Sam.
After the dog walk, I spent a few hours writing, feeling myself getting drawn into the world I was describing. The jarring chime of the doorbell interrupted me and a glance at the clock made me realise just how much time had passed and how engrossed I had been. Gone were the days of counting the hours until the ki
ds came home from school just so that I would have something to do, someone to talk to.
I approached the door nervously, not sure whether to expect a brick through the glass or something worse. For the last few days, the feeling of being watched had multiplied. Every time I left my house, I felt exposed, like a specimen in a petri dish with unseen eyes studying me. I hoped it was just the paranoia from not taking my pills that Paul had warned me about because at least then I knew it would pass. But the notes were still coming, one every other day or so, all saying the same type of thing: that they knew who I really was, what I’d done and suggesting they would tell my family the truth. The drawer upstairs was becoming quite a container of venom, but I bizarrely didn’t want to destroy the letters. They were evidence that the paranoia was justified. I felt like the only things that were stabilising me were my writing, my meetings with Sam and the unconditional joy I got from seeing my children every day. As long as I had that, I could ignore the notes, safe in the knowledge that if whoever it was wanted to tell my family, they would have done so by now. They merely wanted to toy with me, torment me, see me squirm – and I would not give them the pleasure if I could help it.
Even so, I kept the chain on and opened the door a crack. A delivery man was standing on the doorstep, his face partially obscured by the large bunch of flowers in his arms.
Pulling back the chain, I opened the door fully and accepted the bouquet curiously. This was certainly not Paul’s style. Closing the door behind me, I wandered back into the kitchen and pulled the florist card from the arrangement.
Love spending time with you. S x
I smiled at Sam’s thoughtfulness, refusing to let my mind dwell on the ‘x’. We were friends; there was nothing more to it than that. Rewind and repeat.
But how was I going to explain these to Paul?
The arrangement was big and clumsy, full of still closed yellow lilies, which I generally didn’t like because they reminded me of funeral flowers, their petals like wagging tongues when they opened. But I didn’t want to throw them away. That seemed wasteful and disrespectful somehow. Maybe I could say Helen had sent them.
