Back After the Break

by Anita Notaro

  She settled down, half hoping that he’d phone and ask her again to call round to the party. She changed her clothes and redid her make-up, knowing she’d be there like a shot if he asked again. Maybe she should ring him back. No, better wait and see.

  The doorbell rang. She wondered. She ran. She smiled.

  ‘Hi.’

  Paul stood there.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  IT WAS PITCH-BLACK outside. Lindsay blinked, convinced it was Chris and that her mind was playing tricks. Then he spoke and she knew.

  ‘Can I come in?’ A voice like velvet that she thought she’d never hear again.

  The old half of her wanted to grab him and drag him inside, in case he got away. Again. The other half wanted to kick him back down the path, roll him out onto the street, directly into the path of an oncoming bus.

  She stood back, silently, hating herself for her unspoken enthusiasm.

  ‘How are you?’ asked eyes that could melt ice at twenty paces.

  ‘Great,’ a pair of too bright, confused ones answered.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you. But first can I use your loo?’

  Hardly the most romantic of introductions but she stood back anyway, helpless as usual, it seemed. He bounded up the stairs, well used to this space. She followed, unsure why, and went into the bedroom.

  Flicking on the light, she checked herself in the mirror, foolishly glad she’d changed out of her comfies. Her face looked washed out. She felt sick. He, on the other hand, looked his usual polished self, although he’d put on a bit of weight and his face was fuller, even a touch jowly.

  Suddenly he was beside her.

  ‘God, we had some good times in this room, in this house. I’ve missed them.’ He stood directly in front of her and touched her arm. He was close, very close and she could smell alcohol although he didn’t look drunk.

  She reached over and pulled down the blind, not wanting to be seen.

  She was too late.

  If she hadn’t been so preoccupied she might have noticed Chris standing beside his car, on the other side of the road, staring directly at the two of them.

  ‘Come down to the kitchen.’ She felt uncomfortable and she didn’t fully understand it. God knows she’d imagined him back in this room many times over the last few months, holding her, kissing her, telling her it was all a mistake. How many times had she woken and pictured him standing exactly where he now stood, watching her, undressing her with his eyes?

  She flicked off the light and he followed her downstairs.

  Charlie looked at him but didn’t move and he made no attempt to greet the animal.

  ‘Why did you come?’ She needed to know. Quickly.

  ‘I’d love a drink. Any chance?’

  Automatically, she poured him a Scotch, glad to be busy for a moment, delighted to have an excuse to turn her back on him, afraid of the power he still had over her. She handed him the tumbler and finished her own glass of wine in a swallow, topping it up with more than she wanted and less than she needed.

  He sat down on the couch and he wasn’t as powerful as she’d imagined, in fact he’d definitely let himself go a bit, she thought. Or was she just seeing him as he really was? She deliberately didn’t sit beside him, curling herself instead in a protective ball on one of the big squashy armchairs.

  ‘I’ve thought about you a lot these past few weeks, especially over Christmas. We need to talk.’

  ‘We needed to talk months ago but you never gave me the chance. Why now? What’s changed?’

  He knocked back the burning liquid and kept his eyes on her as he did so. Suddenly she saw he looked really tired, maybe that was what was different.

  ‘I miss you.’

  She didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or burst into tears, but knew the former was based on hysteria and suspected the latter was much closer to how she was feeling.

  ‘I missed you for months. It would have been easier for me if you’d died. It would have hurt a lot less.’

  He was uncomfortable and she was glad. He indicated his glass and she knew he needed to get away from her unforgiving eyes.

  She gestured towards the bottle and he escaped for a refill.

  ‘It was all a misunderstanding.’ He was beside her again.

  ‘What exactly did I not understand? The bit about you getting married, only not to me?’

  ‘I panicked, I wasn’t sure, it was nerves . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘You were nervous so you asked someone else to marry you, while you were engaged to me?’ She was convinced she must be going mad.

  ‘I hadn’t actually asked her to marry me, I just said that to make you back off for a while.’

  ‘What?’ She was definitely going bonkers.

  ‘I’d met her and we’d seen each other for a drink after work, that sort of thing. I felt trapped with you and she didn’t ask anything of me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I never intended it to go as far as it did . . .’

  ‘You never even tried to contact me, to explain . . .’

  ‘I was afraid to.’

  ‘OK, let me get this straight. You lied to me, put me through all that, because you didn’t want to tell me you needed a bit of space.’

  She looked at him as if she’d never seen him before. ‘How could you do that to me? What did I ever do to you to make you want to hurt me that badly?’

  He drained and refilled his glass again, anything to avoid looking at her.

  ‘Our break-up was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I nearly didn’t make it through.’ She was crying now, but not by choice. Big, wet, silent tears that might have gone unnoticed in the lamplight, except for the noisy dribbles and snuffles that gave her away. They were tears of frustration, anger, vulnerability.

  ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘You couldn’t.’

  ‘Give me another chance.’

  ‘I gave you everything I had and it wasn’t enough. I’ve nothing left to give to you.’

  ‘Look, let’s go out somewhere, get something to eat, talk—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want us to get back together.’

  ‘There is no us.’

  ‘Look I’ve changed, I’ll—’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘I can explain, it wasn’t as bad as it sounds . . .’

  He was refilling his glass again and she realized he was quite drunk. In fact, he was starting to slur his words and as he poured another she noticed he’d had nearly half a bottle.

  ‘Why are you drinking so fast?’

  ‘Dutch courage.’ He grinned and she remembered it and it hurt all over again.

  ‘How much Dutch courage did you have before you came here?’

  ‘One or two. I wasn’t sure you’d talk to me but I knew I had to try and see you.’

  ‘Why now? We’ve both changed . . . I’ve come a long way . . . I’m not the same person.’ She stopped, suddenly afraid that he could still hurt her. ‘Why now . . . ?’ It was the million-dollar question.

  Just when it no longer kills me to hear your name, when I don’t think about you every second any more, just when I’ve met someone else that I might be falling a little bit in love with. But she didn’t have the courage to say any of it, or else didn’t want him to know, afraid he’d spoil it like he’d spoilt everything else in her life.

  ‘I want you to go.’ She’d only just realized it.

  ‘Can we go out tomorrow night, somewhere quiet, just to talk . . . Please?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think about it. I’ll call you.’ He stood up and swayed slightly.

  ‘You can’t drive like that, you’ll kill yourself.’ What the hell did she care?

  He read her mind. ‘Would you care?’

  ‘I’ll call a taxi. She dialled quickly, afraid of her answer and what it would do to them both.

  In what can only be described as an act of God, the cab arrived within minutes, unhea
rd of in the tiger economy that was modem Ireland.

  ‘I’ll call by in the morning to collect my car. Maybe we could have breakfast?’

  ‘I have to be in work early, I have a meeting.’ She lied easily.

  He was at the door. ‘I still love you, you know.’ He delivered the final blow and for a second it punched her in the stomach and then, like a bolt of lightning, she realized that she didn’t love him. Not any more. It should have freed her but right now it was still too raw.

  She closed the door quickly and just as she had all those months ago she slithered onto the cold, hard floor in the draughty hallway and cried for what might have been.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  SHE DIDN’T MOVE for ages. Huddled against the wall like a well-dressed down-and-out seeking shelter, she didn’t notice that Charlie was beside her until she eventually realized that something was saving her from the icy wind blowing in under the badly fitting front door. She got up because she had to, forcing her body out of its unnatural contortion, jerking as she put her numb foot to the floor. The hall was dark and the floorboards squeaky as she made her way slowly to the kitchen with her dog padding along, minding her.

  The room was warm and cosy, the fire still doing its job. She shivered and sat down. Charlie hopped up beside her, ignoring the house rules. She stroked him because she knew it would keep him close and she needed the comfort. After a while she poured herself a brandy, trying to get the warmth back into her stiff, numb body.

  For once, she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She simply sat, nursing her drink and her dog, staring into the now dying flames as one might watch a not very good movie. Sometime later she saw the clock and discovered that it was well after midnight – almost three hours had passed since her visitor left. She turned out the lights and went to bed, stopping only to check her answering machine – the phone had rung a couple of times during the evening. No messages. She didn’t care.

  Ten minutes later, teeth brushed, hollow face washed clean by all her tears, she filled a hot-water bottle and climbed into bed where she clutched the warmth and curled up, foetus-like, and tried to protect herself until morning.

  When it came it brought little relief to her aching body and throbbing head. She rose at seven and got a fright when she saw the grey face and lifeless eyes and black circles. She dressed and pounded the streets with Charlie, hair scraped back, dark glasses protecting her from prying eyes. She walked for over an hour and tried to make sense of it all, wondering why he still had the power to hurt her if she didn’t care any more.

  When she got back to the house she phoned Tara but she’d left for work and her mobile was off. Desperate, she tried Debbie, who was on her way home from the airport, having just got in on an early morning flight from London.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I need to talk to you, but I have to be in work by ten at the latest.’

  ‘The traffic is terrible so I probably wouldn’t get to you until after nine. What about lunch?’

  ‘OK, see you at one in O’Shea’s.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Is it Chris?’

  ‘No.’ Long pause. ‘Paul called last night.’

  ‘Called where?’

  ‘At the house.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you let him in?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Me. Back.’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ, the nerve of the bastard. Are you OK?’

  ‘I dunno, I think so. I need to tell somebody.’

  ‘Right, you hang on till lunchtime, OK babe?’

  ‘OK.’

  She showered and dressed and heard the phone ringing but didn’t answer it. When she left for work at nine-thirty his car was gone.

  ‘You look terrible,’ Alan Morland greeted her as she entered the office.

  ‘Happy New Year to you too,’ was the best she could manage.

  They had a meeting at ten but Lindsay couldn’t remember a thing that was said. At eleven-thirty one of the secretaries arrived into the office completely hidden by a huge bunch of roses, which she handed to Lindsay. She couldn’t bring herself to examine the card, hoping they were from Chris but afraid to risk it, at least until she was alone.

  At twelve Alan sent her home, despite her protests.

  ‘I swear I’m OK, I’m over the flu.’

  ‘Well, then you need another day or two to rest. Go home, take it easy on your first day back and see how you feel in the morning.’

  She gave in and rang Debbie, who insisted she come round to her place for lunch instead.

  She arrived to a huge bowl of home-made soup and fresh, nutty brown bread, which Debbie forced her to finish.

  ‘No point in making yourself ill again,’ she advised.

  Afterwards they went for a drive to the beach at Dollymount and Debbie parked the car and Lindsay poured out her short but eventful story.

  ‘I don’t believe it, I just don’t fucking believe it,’ was all she managed to say. Several times.

  Tara rang at four. She’d been in court all day and had just been given Lindsay’s message.

  ‘We’re heading for McGivney’s. Call by on your way home and cancel any plans for this evening. It’s an emergency.’ Debbie was her usual straightforward self.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘It’s Lindsay.’

  ‘Is it Chris?’

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘Fraid so and believe me you’ll need a drink to stomach this one.’

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  So they sat and talked for the millionth time in this particular scenario and still didn’t understand it, although Lindsay found it helped her greatly. Suddenly she began to thaw out and see things clearly, with the help of some obscene language from Debbie and a few hot whiskeys from Tara. They were shocked by his callousness, Tara more so because she was hearing it for the first time.

  ‘Let me get this straight, he wasn’t getting married at all . . . but why . . . ? How?’

  ‘He said it was nerves, he wasn’t sure he could go through with it and needed some space.’

  ‘That I can understand but what a cruel fucking way to get it.’ Lindsay realized that Debbie had gotten straight to the heart of things, as usual.

  ‘I know, that’s what I keep thinking. What did I ever do to him to make him treat me so cruelly and with so little love or compassion?’

  ‘Listen, don’t fool yourself. Whatever other good points he may have had, compassionate he wasn’t.’ Debbie was not in the mood to be tactful.

  ‘This has nothing to do with you. It wasn’t your fault.’ Tara knew how hard this was for her.

  ‘I feel used. I feel dirty. I feel as if I deserved it somehow.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ Tara looked sad.

  ‘Imagine that he could do that to me, though. And then, come back months later and expect to pick up where we left off. He didn’t even ask me if I had met anyone, didn’t even consider what effect all of this would have on me.’

  ‘Please, before I slit my wrists, then yours, tell me you’re not considering taking him back.’

  ‘No.’ She managed the tiniest grin.

  As soon as she said it aloud she felt better, helped by their whoops of delight.

  ‘Thank God, otherwise I’d have had to commit you.’

  ‘I feel like having champagne as a treat.’

  ‘No, please, I’m not even nearly at the stage of celebrating yet. I don’t even feel relieved. I feel numb. I feel as if I’ve done fifteen rounds in a boxing ring. Somehow, I can’t shake the feeling that I did something terrible for him to have treated me so badly.’

  ‘You did nothing. This is not about you. Just thank God you didn’t get as far as marrying the bastard.’

  ‘Have you told Chris?’ Tara wanted to know.

  ‘No. I haven’t
talked to him. I think he may be in London.’

  ‘Will you tell him?’

  ‘I don’t honestly know if I have the courage. I’m ashamed of it – ashamed that Paul cared so little for me that he treated me like that.’

  ‘He’d understand. It could happen to anyone.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so. I’m sure I will tell him – next time he asks me for a secret I’ll probably just blurt it out.’ She smiled, suddenly feeling close to him, even though she hadn’t a clue where he was in the world or what he was up to. She’d call him later.

  They ordered pub food – big juicy steaks with home-made chips and salad – nothing fancy but very tasty.

  Lindsay felt almost human again as they walked back to her house at nine. She’d forgotten to tell them about the flowers and handed Tara the card to open.

  ‘Maybe they’re from Chris.’

  ‘I wish, but no, I don’t think so somehow. I never did like red roses anyway.’

  ‘Forgive me, I’ll make it up to you,’ Tara read and made one of her favourite ‘I think I’m going to throw up’ gestures.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll give up too easily. You’re going to have to spell it out to him.’

  Lindsay was already checking her messages and there were two from Paul, asking her to call him.

  ‘Do it now, get it over with.’

  ‘No. He didn’t show me that courtesy. Let him sweat.’

  This wasn’t like her at all and the girls were thrilled. They sat around and drank tea and kept her company but by ten o’clock she needed to go to bed. Last night’s escapades had suddenly caught up with her.

  She scrubbed her face and sloshed on lots of moisturizer and went to bed with her mobile phone. No messages. She sent a text.

  HOW DID LAST NITE GO? R U IN DUBLIN?

  She got a reply just as she was dozing off.

  IN LONDON. U DIDN’T MAKE IT 2 PARTY.

  NO. DID SOME WORK. WENT 2 BED EARLY. WHEN R U HOME?

  It wasn’t really a lie, she reasoned with herself. It was all still a bit too raw to talk about.