Jenni cooked a meal at her flat. Stuffed mushrooms and couscous. She was renting a studio flat on the high street in Stansfield, on the corner above the benefits office. Cheap and damp and badly furnished. The traffic noise inside sounded like the swish of the ocean – swirling and repetitive. I’ve never liked traffic noise. The flat needed double glazing. The flat needed total refurbishment. But Jenni was innovative and she had done everything she could to try and improve it. Large fronded plants, painted floorboards and scatter cushions. Scented candles to mask the smell of damp. Low lights and mood music.
We sat opposite each other on a pair of brown cushions and ate our healthy supper. Jenni was wearing a bright red jumpsuit, which clung to her slender figure. She had tied her long dark hair back in a ponytail and enhanced her eyes with black kohl. She looked neat and crisp and oriental, except for her silver gypsy loop earrings. We didn’t speak as we ate, we just sat cross-legged, looking into each other’s eyes, the music swirling around us – something electronic and experimental. We didn’t drink. Jenni served sparkling mineral water, but even so I was beginning to feel as if I was on a high. When we’d finished eating I asked her my first question.
‘How long have you lived in Stansfield?’
‘All my life.’ There was a pause. ‘Except when I was starting my nursing training – I had a few years in a students’ hall of residence in London.’
‘What was that like?’
‘Well, I was glad to get back here.’
‘I’ve lived here forever too,’ I had said. ‘I still live with my parents. Why haven’t we ever met before?’
‘Stansfield’s not that small, and I guess I’m quite a lot younger than you.’
She cleared away the dishes and offered me fruit and yoghurt. I refused. Then she came back and sat next to me on my scatter cushion. I could feel her breath on my cheek. I could smell her. Honey and patchouli oil; that heady scent. I put my arm around her and we fell backwards on the cushion so that we were both lying looking at the ceiling. She had painted the ceiling magenta and stuck plastic glow stars on it, stars which shone a little in the dim light. I thought it looked seriously weird but I didn’t comment. She seemed like a frightened rabbit and I didn’t want to upset her.
‘You’re so lucky to have your parents around,’ she said, a high-pitched whimper in her tone. ‘I used to live with mine until a year ago.’
‘What happened?’ I asked softly.
‘When they retired they moved away, to Chessingfold, a village near Midhurst.’
‘That’s only about an hour away.’
‘I know. I shouldn’t have minded so much. It’s a two-hour round trip though and I was used to seeing them every day.’
‘Could you have gone with them?’
‘Not really, it would have been too far to commute to my job. And I couldn’t have left St Mary’s – all my friends in bible study, my friends in prayer group.’
I looked into those sable brown eyes; they were beginning to shine with tears.
‘It took me a while to forgive them. I figured that they moved away because they didn’t love me, so I grieved their loss.’
I was perplexed by this. By this level of insecurity. By this level of sensitivity. But I continued to look into those eyes and tried to look sympathetic. I watched her wipe her face with her fingers, smudging her heavy eyeliner slightly. She continued.
‘I’ve come through it now. My mum said one day I would understand and now I do. Chessingfold, where they’ve moved to, is a peaceful area, so perfect for retirement, for leisure. The air smells fresh there. Stansfield is so busy and bustling with so many facilities for working people and families. They just grew out of Stansfield and needed to get away.’
She smiled at me, a half smile, tentative and shy.
‘They do actually seem to still love me.’
‘I’m sure they do,’ I said and kissed her.
Oh, those soft cherry blossom lips.
I melted into her and kissed her and kissed her as if I would never stop. She seemed to be enjoying it, kissing me back, exploring my mouth with her tongue. I caressed her back and started to undo the zip of her jumpsuit. She pulled away as if I had burnt her. She sat up and looked at me, lips parted in indignation.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Well, er, um. Well, I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, not at all sure what to say. Wasn’t it obvious what I was doing?
‘Craig. I would have thought you realised. I’m a Christian. I don’t believe in sex before marriage.’ There is a pause. ‘So it isn’t at all appropriate to try and undress me on a second date.’
She said this still looking at me in a come to bed way, a way that let me know she was tempted.
I didn’t find this emotional repression easy. It wasn’t what I was used to. But there was something about her denial, her unobtainability; it fascinated me and instead of pushing me away it pulled me towards her. Despite the sexual barrier between us, our relationship quickly grew. Obviously I took sexual solace elsewhere, what else could I do? I tried to water my infidelity down with as much masturbation as possible. But inevitably, the sexual tension between us became unbearable and hastened our trip to the altar, where I promised to be faithful.
Faithful.
A big issue for me. And I succeeded for a long time, as Jenni, although inexperienced, was quick to learn and responsive to my touch. I loved her more than anything. Her confidence seemed to grow and grow as she was wrapped in my love. The timid doe-like creature she once was blossomed into a much more outgoing, forthright young woman. Jenni. I miss you. I still love you so much. I would do anything to get you back. Anything, Jenni. Do you hear me?
I push my memories of you away, Jenni, and find myself on my own in the play park, still watching my boys frolicking. A woman arrives with three children and sits on the bench next to me. Her children join my boys at the slide. Everyone is climbing up it instead of sliding down it. The woman is the sort of woman who looks as if she thinks she’s attractive. Over-bleached hair. Too much red lipstick and gold jewellery. Enough perfume to give anyone who comes into contact with her asthma. The sort of woman who probably doesn’t look very good without make-up.
‘Look at them doing everything the wrong way round.’ She laughs at her own observation. ‘How old are yours?’ she asks.
I do not reply. I pretend I have not heard and stand up to pace around the perimeter of the play area. She shrugs almost imperceptibly and starts to fiddle with her phone. My phone throbs in my trouser pocket. I fish it out. Carly.
I press ignore. The button I should have pressed in the first place – the button I will always press from now on. Any other woman. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
~ Jenni ~
Rain on the day of the church fete. Water ricochets off the church roof. Off the gravestones. Off the cheap canopies from B&Q that the committee have erected at the last minute, after listening to the weather forecast. The graveyard is transformed. A cake stall beneath the yew tree. A ‘guess the weight of an oversized bible’ by the church wall. Tombola. Lucky dip. White elephant. Bric-a-brac. Balloons streaked with raindrop tears. Sodden bunting.
I smell bacon sandwiches. I follow their salty, earthy aroma, which I find so unpleasant and take up my post buttering bread. Six of us, shoulder to shoulder behind a trestle table. So many of us because of Health and Safety, each doing a separate chore, hands wrapped in thin plastic gloves. The rain penetrates the sodden canopy above us, drips of water starting to land on my hair. One slithers down the back of my neck. I watch the rain falling in bullets from the metallic sky, low tumbling clouds cascading towards us. So few people have come to the fete, we’ve hardly sold any bacon sandwiches. One to the vicar who proclaimed, in his ecclesiastical way, that it was delicious. One to the organist. Two to people dashing through the churchyard on their way to the shops. Sarah Donnelly, who is in charge of our stall, invites us to buy a bacon sandwich each to boost our depleted profits. I cannot oblige
as I am vegetarian. I pay half price for two slices of margarine-covered bread. The cheap margarine tastes soapy and unpleasant. It coats my teeth. I try and wash it down with a slug of coffee, or rather a slug of a brown hot drink from a Styrofoam cup, which I inadvertently take a bite out of. I am hardly eating anything since Craig left. The coffee and the soapy margarine, and the smell of the bacon, is too much for me and makes me feel sick, suddenly and dangerously sick. I need to go to the toilet.
‘You’ll have to excuse me a moment,’ I say to Sarah Donnelly, ‘I need to go to the lavatory.’
‘Can’t you wait until the end of the shift?’
A teacher. Well-meaning but bossy.
‘’Fraid not,’ I say. ‘I’m desperate.’
‘OK. OK. Jane will have to double up; cooking bacon and buttering.’
‘See you in a bit.’
I reach for my umbrella and escape to the toilets, past the crèche that has been set up in the vestry. I see my children, sitting in the crèche, playing with the church’s toys, so old the plastic has faded, drinking cheap orange squash that looks like urine. I ignore them. I don’t want to distract them. They’re quite happy at the moment not knowing where I am, but as soon as they see me they will want me.
In the toilet I am violently sick, the smell of the bacon fat still surrounding me. The vomiting expunges me; I feel better. I clean myself up as best as I can and run into the vicar on the way out. The vicar. The last person I’m in the mood for. Artificial ecclesiastical joviality is not helping me at the moment. The truth is, nothing is helping me at the moment except Rob. Rob seems to always know the right line to take with me to help me feel positive. I suppose it’s his GP training. The vicar is a young man without a partner, a young man who doesn’t seem to understand the pain I’m going through. He is wearing skinny jeans, a North Face jacket and his dog collar; head crowned in an Australian leather bush hat to protect him from the rain. He looks jaunty and alternative – at least for a vicar. He grins at me. I try to grin back, hoping I don’t smell of sick, but my face has forgotten how to smile these days.
‘Just the person I wanted to see,’ he says. ‘I want to talk to you about Craig.’
Not now please.
‘I hear you’ve sold the family home.’
I do not want to talk to him about this. Or anything.
‘Who told you?’ I almost snap.
‘I have my sources.’
‘That makes you sound like a detective.’
‘A vicar sometimes needs to be.’
His eyes are twinkling into mine from beneath his bush hat, as if he is judging me.
‘So the bible readings and guided prayer didn’t help, then?’
‘They did in a way,’ I stammer. ‘They helped me find the direction I was happy to go in. The path in the way of the Lord that was right for me.’
A platitudinous nod of the head.
‘I just couldn’t live with infidelity. Love should never fail.’ I continue. ‘From Corinthians. Wedding special.’
He shuffles his weight from foot to foot for a few seconds, biding his time, considering what to say.
‘Well, that’s one way to interpret it. I’m glad the Lord helped you reach your decision.’ There is a pause. ‘Any time you need to talk again, come and see me at the vicarage. Ring first, just to check that I’m there.’ There is a pause. ‘But remember, Jenni, those who God has joined together let no man put asunder.’
His words stab into me and make me want to cry. To cry out and tell the world about Carly. But I can’t. I can’t because I mustn’t hurt Rob.
Stepping outside again, I find the rain has subsided to a grizzly drizzle. By the time I return to my bacon sandwich duties, a well-ordered queue is dispersing nicely and my services are superfluous. Released to wander about beneath my umbrella, I buy a sponge cake with pink icing on, and win a bottle of sweet sherry on the tombola. I look at my watch. Time to help Rob. As I scuttle towards the coconut shy, the drizzle fades and the sun begins to soften through blurred cloud. By the time I arrive, Rob has already set everything up – three coconuts are balancing on cupped sticks, a table and chair have been carefully placed for taking the money.
‘Good day,’ he says.
He steps towards me and places both his hands on my arms, bending towards me to whisper in my right ear.
‘Are you all right? You look pale. Really pale.’
‘I’m fine. I just had a reaction to the smell of the bacon sandwiches.’
‘I’ll avoid that stall then,’ he says, kissing me on both cheeks.
His lips sear my skin and I feel flushed and know that I am blushing. As he steps back I hope he hasn’t noticed.
‘How’s life at the surgery?’ I ask to try and distract him from my colour.
He shrugs his shoulders.
‘All right but we’re stretched at the seams, desperate for another receptionist. I can’t seem to find the right person. I don’t suppose you know anyone suitable you could push our way do you?’
‘I’m so stay-at-home these days, Rob. I don’t know anyone like that.’
‘Pity,’ he says and flashes his cracked smile at me. ‘Well then, what do you want to do? Money or coconuts?’ he asks.
‘Money,’ I volunteer, moving away from him to sit at the plastic table. A queue has already formed so I start dealing with it. As I hand a young lad his change I look up to see Rob showing our first customer how to throw; a young boy of about four in a blue raincoat. Rob’s slender frame is riddled with kindness and my heart jumps a little. How could Carly misuse him so? And he doesn’t even know. If he was mine I would treasure him and look after him. Always.
‘Not bad, is he?’
I turn my head and find myself looking up at Carly herself. Standing in front of me wearing a garish raincoat with matching plastic boots and a hat. Glowering at me, eyebrows pushed together. She almost intimidates me, but I’m getting used to her mood swings now.
‘Would you like a turn?’ I ask.
‘I like to think I can have a turn whenever I want one.’
‘I’m sure you can.’
She laughs.
‘Whatever. I was just passing through. As I’m sure you know, church isn’t my thing. Religion is counter-productive indoctrination. John Lennon’s “Imagine” sums it up. The world would be better off without all religions.’
She stands, legs apart, crossed arms, still glowering. Glowering makes her face look like a gargoyle. A handsome gargoyle. Carly has such strong-boned features that even when she’s cross she looks good. No wonder Craig was tempted. My stomach feels as if it’s being squeezed by a fist, and for a second I think I need to vomit once more. I look up at Carly, her face still puckered into a heavy frown, and am suddenly reminded of something my mother used to say when I had a bad look on my face. Take that look off your face, or if the wind changes direction it’ll stay like that.
My mother’s love is coming to me, breathing across the years. My sickness is subsiding. Remember, she is telling me, Carly is ill. It’s sad what is happening to her. Carly is really ill. She never used to behave like this.
‘Richard Dawkins has looked at the average IQs of those who are religious and those who are not. Do you know what he found?’ Carly is saying, a twisted grin on her face.
‘Let me guess. Those who aren’t religious are far more intelligent?’ I say, making sure I sound light. As if her insults don’t matter. Because that is what they are, insults – not the prophetic comments she supposes.
‘Correct,’ she says, blowing Rob a kiss across the graveyard.
But her efforts are wasted. He hasn’t seen her.
She turns and weaves away, unsteady on her feet. If it wasn’t so early I would suspect she had been drinking. Maybe it’s just her boots, slipping in the mud. Relief sears across me as I watch her slide away.
~ Carly ~
The bitch-whore is flirting with Rob at the coconut shy. I caught her red-handed. Little-girl-lost look, hai
r tied back in a ponytail, trying to catch him with her Julia Roberts smile.
~ Carly ~
I lie in bed fully dressed, pulling the covers over me, not even bothering to take off my shoes. My mother has taken the children to school even though it’s one of my days off, because I need to catch up on my chores. Chores and jobs. So much to do that it’s overwhelming. The kitchen is grimy. The garden a jungle. The washing basket exploding. Everything Rob possesses needs ironing. A volcano of bills erupting through the letterbox. Cooking. Cleaning. Shopping.
The voices in my head keep whispering, telling me all the things I should be doing, but I cannot move. The ache between my shoulder blades is overwhelming me. I stay wrapped in my bed covers, shrouded in my clothing, like a sweaty hamster buried in a nest. I cannot sleep. I cannot get up. I lie in bed, thinking about the way I felt when I first met Rob.
The smell of my first hospital comes back to me, antiseptic tinged with lemon aftershave. We are standing next to each other looking at the notice board, back then, before I even knew who he was. He smiles at me and my insides collapse. Then he walks away.
I see him again a few days later, in the canteen, having lunch at a table near the window. I notice an empty seat opposite him, take my opportunity, and join him. Watching him eat. It is midsummer and sharp sunlight sculpts his craggy features; his prominent nose, his long, balanced face, his ridged cheekbones. But it is his eyes that interest me most. Green cat’s eyes speckled with kindness. He looks across at my plate of chips.
‘You’ll have to ditch the saturated fats if you want to keep a figure like that,’ he says.
‘Who are you to tell me what to eat?’
‘A young man who wants to be a GP.’
Green eyes hold mine.
‘Or rather a young man who would like to buy you a drink when we come off shift.’
‘I’d like that. Yes, please.’
I remember the rest of my shift passing in a blur. Meeting at the back of the hospital. He took my hand as we walked across the road to go to the pub. I knew from that moment I would fall in love with him. A pulse of excitement rising in the pit of my stomach. But where has that feeling gone? What has happened now?
Obsession: A shocking psychological thriller where love affairs turn deadly Page 9
