The letters Justin had taken from her were still inside. The letters from Alette he hadn’t wanted her to read. She remembered how he had snatched them from her hand.
She looked up. The eyes above the fireplace were watching her. They seemed amused.
She picked up the letters. They were still fastened together with a rubber band. Quietly, without any haste, she walked to the couch and opened her handbag. She slid the letters into the inside pocket. Afterwards she would look back on this moment and realize she had felt no shame in doing so.
‘Hey.’
She turned around quickly.
He was standing inside the door, his dark hair tousled.
‘I miss you, come back to bed.’ He held out his hand.
She followed him back down the passage and into the room. He had switched on the bedside lamp. It cast a warm glow over the sheets. Warm. Inviting. Why, then, was she feeling chilled? In the air was the merest suggestion of a sweet-smelling scent.
She got into the bed next to him and he pulled up the bedclothes so they covered her bare shoulders.
‘You shouldn’t leave me like that,’ he said. ‘I woke up and your side of the bed was cold.’
She noticed for the first time the framed print on the wall. It was an odd choice for a bedroom. It was an old-fashioned doomsday scene: mouldy skeletons rising from the putrid earth; angels with vacant faces and flowing hair blowing on trumpets; muscular demons with strong teeth and eyeballs of a pure, pure white. One of the angels, unlike her sisters, was staring out of the frame with yellow eyes, a smile on her lips. She had red hair swirling around her hips.
Justin switched off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. He yawned and put his arm around her, drawing her close. It lay heavy across her breasts. She tried to relax in his hold, but even as her thoughts grew cloudy, something was hammering away at her brain. Just before she slid into sleep Isa wondered how it was that the artist had included Alette in his picture.
• • •
WHEN SHE WOKE UP again, she was momentarily confused as to where she was. She turned her head sharply.
The bed next to her was empty. On top of the crumpled pillow was a note.
Isa,
Can’t bring myself to wake you. Have to leave early for a meeting. Will call you this evening.
Thank you. Thank you for last night.
She crumpled the note between her fingers. The paper bit into her skin.
She took a shower in a bathroom gleaming with chrome and polished granite. Standing quietly underneath the stream of warm water, she tried to think back on the night before. But she couldn’t get her mind to focus. The entire experience seemed insubstantial. All she seemed to remember was an interplay of texture and light and shadow. Skin, satin, dark hollows, moon drops on the pillows.
Stepping out of the stall, she walked with wet feet towards the towel rack. One of the towels felt damp, and as she dried herself in front of the mirror, she noticed a tiny fleck of wet shaving cream inside the washbasin.
The place felt eerily empty without him. She entered the living room and the sunlight falling through the sash windows seemed stale and sharp. There was dust on the windowsill.
She felt ill at ease alone in his apartment, but as she shrugged into her coat, she realized she also did not wish to return to Alette’s house. If only she didn’t have to go back to those quiet rooms, those smiling photographs.
Inside the taxi she found that she was tensing her arms and legs as if by doing so she could postpone the moment of arrival. And when Alette’s house finally came into view, it was as though—for just a second—a cog had slipped in her brain and she did not recognize the place. It was suddenly not a house of bricks and mortar anymore, but the line drawing of a child. Walls aslant, windows uneven, door out of proportion to the rest of the house.
She paid the driver and stepped out of the cab. Then she turned around and pushed open the garden gate. Taking a deep breath, she started walking towards the front door.
EIGHTEEN
Your very shaddow is the glasse
Wher my defects I finde.
Song
Sidney Godolphin (1610–1643)
IT STARTED THE MOMENT SHE ENTERED, a feeling of utter dread, which closed itself around her heart like a fist. The air inside the house was thick and heavy, but cold. So very cold.
As she walked up the stairs, the feeling of trepidation grew. Halfway up the stairs she stopped and placed her hand against her breast. Her heart was racing as though she had run for miles.
She entered Alette’s bedroom. What was happening to her? Every object around her seemed terrifyingly sharp-edged, as though by merely touching the rim of that Chinese vase, she would find her finger red with blood.
She left the room and started walking through the house, aimlessly opening and closing closets and drawers. She felt feverish and so restless. As she moved from one floor to the other, entering and exiting rooms, the minutes ticked away. And still she could find no peace. Why was she feeling so agitated, and at the same time sorrowful? Why this sick feeling that her heart was beating out of step?
She wanted nothing more than to escape, to walk out of the front door and find new air to breathe, but she found herself completely incapable of doing so. It was not possible for her to leave. She did not deserve it. She was a prisoner, marooned in this sad place; this prison built with the sharp stakes of deceit and betrayal. Guilt. Terrible, terrible guilt. How could she have betrayed Alette?
Images started racing through her mind with frantic speed. Alette in her pale nightdress, standing next to her bed, a finger to her lips. Alette, her hands two white moths darting across the keys of Aunt Lettie’s upright piano. Alette in her wedding dress of whitest lace. Alette who was here in the house with her now. She sensed her presence. She knew with certain dread that if she were to turn around right now, she would find Alette immediately behind her, her eyes reproachful. And she would ask a question and expect her, Isa, to have the answer. But she would have no answer to give. For how does one justify the betrayal of friendship?
‘I love him.’ She spoke out loud. But of course, these were words that carried no weight, and worthless words made no sound.
If she could only find a place to rest, but every room in the house was hostile. She finally ended up sitting in a corner of the bathroom, her arms around her knees, her back pressed up against the tiled wall. She glanced at her watch and a minute later looked at it again and two hours had passed—time sucked away—and her not able to account for it. She saw her face in the mirror and it was the strangest feeling. She had stepped out of her body and was looking from the outside back at herself, at this person she hardly knew. Who was this hunched-over figure with the strained and watchful face, this woman who was listening to the drip-drip of the tap with fearful fascination? It was as though she was watching herself turn into something else, someone else …
She had to leave this room. She pushed herself upward and out of the door. The sun was streaming through the window and onto the landing, throwing thick yellow blobs against the wall. She started to walk down the stairs, holding on to the balustrade.
She stopped. There was something wrong with her shadow. Her shadow was sharply drawn and dark against the sun-washed wall, but it was too slight and not nearly tall enough to belong to her. It belonged to a smaller woman.
She felt the panic rise in her throat. She placed her hand on her stomach as though this would quiet the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.
The doorbell rang sharply—the sound slicing like a scream through the still air. It jerked her out of her panic and she blinked like a sleepwalker who had just been awakened. The bell rang again.
She almost ran down the stairs and at the door her hands worked feverishly to open the lock.
Michael stared at her. ‘My God. You look terrible. Are you all right?’
She nodded; couldn’t speak.
‘Can I come in?’
�
��Yes, yes.’ She clutched at his hand, almost dragging him inside.
She was breathing easier now. His hand in hers was warm and comforting. The largeness of him, the immediacy of his presence, filled the tiny hall and was immensely reassuring.
He looked at her frowningly as she simply stood there. He gestured at the stairs. ‘Shall we go into the living room?’
‘Of course,’ she said.’ Let’s go into the living room.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’ he asked again as he settled down in one of the big chintz-covered armchairs.
She hugged herself. ‘I’m sorry it’s so cold in here. There must be something wrong with the heating.’
He shrugged. ‘Feels fine to me.’ He reached behind him to position one of the throw cushions at his back. ‘I came to look for you last night.’
‘Last night?’
‘Yes. I got back last night and stopped by to ask you to have dinner with me. I was worried about how you survived the holidays. Christmas and New Year’s Eve blues and all that. And you being far from home.’ He smiled his slow smile, but there was puzzled concern in his eyes.
‘I went out. With a friend.’
She wasn’t going to mention Justin’s name. She did not want the expression in Michael’s eyes to change to disappointment. Somehow it was vitally important to her that he not lose faith in her; that he continue to hold her in high regard.
He lifted his eyebrows, surprised. ‘Oh. Who?’
‘Well …’ She stopped, uncertain how to continue.
He stared at her. ‘No.’
‘Michael—’
‘You saw him again. Why?’
She didn’t answer. He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Why, Isa?’
‘Because I wanted to.’ She got out of her chair and walked to the window. She sat down on the wide sill and leaned her forehead against the pane of glass. There was a layer of dust against the window and in it she could see her own faint, distorted reflection.
When she looked back at Michael, his face showed utter disbelief. ‘You’ve been with him, haven’t you?’
She dropped her gaze, didn’t answer. The silence dragged on and on until she felt like snapping her fingers to break the tension.
When he spoke again his voice sounded stunned. ‘What’s wrong with you? You know what kind of man he is. You know what he did to Alette.’
She brushed her hand across her eyes. ‘He loved her. He didn’t want to lose her. It doesn’t make him a criminal.’
‘For Christ’s sake. He would not leave her in peace for one minute. He undermined her self-confidence to such a degree that after a while she wouldn’t leave the house. She was becoming almost reclusive, convinced that he was always waiting: watching her. I would come in here and find her weeping. And the worst of it was, she felt ashamed and humiliated.’
Isa turned her head away. She didn’t want to listen to any of this. She wanted the door on the past shut tight. Over. Done with. If the past couldn’t be altered, at least it should not be allowed to intrude on the present. What she and Justin had together was separate from what he had shared with Alette. Maybe Justin had made mistakes, but mistakes do not have to be repeated. In her mind came the memory of Justin’s hands on her body, his lips in the hollow of her throat. She wished she could hear his voice right now. He had said he would call. He had promised her he would call.
Michael spoke in the same disbelieving voice. ‘You must know how he made her life a misery. Alette must have told you about it while she was alive.’
Isa said dully, ‘Not while she was alive.’
‘What?’
‘Wait here.’ She mounted the stairs and entered the bedroom. She removed the books on the top shelf and took out the envelopes. She hesitated for a moment and then folded the third envelope in half and slid it into the inside pocket of her jacket. On her return downstairs she handed Michael only the first two of Alette’s letters.
She sat down on the windowsill again, her feet neatly tucked in beneath her, her hands folded primly in her lap.
‘My God.’ There was a line running down from his nose to his chin she had not noticed before. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’
He glanced back at the page in his hands. ‘Alette talks about three envelopes.’
She managed to look him in the eye. ‘She never gave the solicitor the third one.’
‘Pity.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in revenge.’
‘I don’t. But now that he’s moved on to you, I’m having second thoughts.’ His lips tightened. ‘You have to stop seeing him.’
Her throat was thick with tears. ‘I won’t. I love him.’
‘Listen to me.’ He was stooping over her and shaking her, his fingers grabbing her arms. ‘You don’t love him: you hardly know him. And what about Alette?’
‘This is about Justin and me. Alette has nothing to do with it.’
He stepped away from her and there was such pity in his eyes she couldn’t bear it.
‘Alette has everything to do with this. He doesn’t care for you. Why do you think he took you to his bed?’
She waited. She knew what was coming and she was breathing shallowly.
‘It was to get back at her. This man is sick. It’s his way of getting back at Alette for having rejected him.’
‘No,’ she shouted. ‘You’re wrong.’
‘I’m not wrong.’ His voice was tired. ‘And tell me, when were you planning on telling him about these?’ He gestured at the letters. ‘Do you really think he’ll want to be with you after knowing what you’ve done?’
She made no reply. She saw herself standing next to the dark water of the Thames, her eyes blinded by light.
If you love someone, you love them regardless.
I thought so, too, but I was wrong.
‘If he ever finds out about this, he’ll go berserk. I would not want you to be alone with him.’
‘He’s not a violent man.’
‘How do you know that?’ Michael sounded thoroughly exasperated. ‘I want to ask you something, but I don’t want you to take it the wrong way.’
She waited.
‘Are you sure you’re really attracted to him? You’re not just doing this to prove something?’
‘Prove what?’
‘That Alette is not the only one who can have him.’
For a moment she just looked at him.
He spoke again, his voice low. ‘I understand, believe me. You felt flattered and—’
‘Flattered?’
The tone of her voice stopped him in his tracks. ‘Well, not flattered exactly …’
‘Oh? Then what exactly?’ She was suddenly so angry, she was shaking. ‘Tell me. Come on, Michael. Let’s hear it. I should be flattered that Justin has actually noticed someone as insignificant as me? I mean, compared to Alette I’m nothing, right? That’s what you’re saying.’
‘Isa, stop it. That’s not what I’m saying at all.’
‘Please leave.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He took a step towards her, his eyes miserable. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t you understand, I care for you, and—’
She did not give him a chance to finish. ‘You know nothing about my relationship with Justin. Or Alette, for that matter. Nothing.’
‘Isa—’
‘Just leave. Please.’
He gave a defeated sigh. At the door he looked back at her. ‘He’s dangerous. I know it. I know he’s dangerous. I’m afraid for you. Please, please be careful.’
She turned her back.
She listened to his heavy footsteps as he walked down the stairs. The sound of the front door slamming. Then silence.
She brought her fist up to her mouth.
She was on her own now.
• • •
A HEAVY GUST OF WIND shook the window and Isa started, suddenly awake again. She was fighting sleep, waiting for Justin’s call.
Outside it was pitch-black. She glanced at her watch:
it was past eleven. The window frames rattled again and the wind threw a spray of raindrops against the glass pane.
As she pulled her legs up underneath her on the chair, the envelope in the inside pocket of her jacket crackled. Alette’s third letter and the two letters for the editors. For some reason she needed to feel them against her: next to her skin, close to her heart.
Her throat felt swollen. Her eyes ached. Her entire body hurt from weeping. But after hours of thinking, she was now able to be honest with herself. Michael was right. Why would Justin be interested in her? Shy, mousy Isa with her raw nails and uncertain mouth. Not to be compared with the woman he had really loved. A woman who walked with an insolent stride, a walk that said, ‘I don’t give a damn.’ A woman who was free and independent. Not like her, Isa, who was afraid of everything.
When he called her tonight on the phone she would tell him it was over. She did not have the courage to tell him face-to-face. And first thing tomorrow she would make arrangements to go back to South Africa: never to return.
The idea that she might never see Justin again was so distressing; it made her breath leave her body with a desperate, burning sob.
Slowly she let her eyes move through the room: from the jewel colours of the rug; to the accordion folds of the books on the shelves; to the long sweep of the swagged curtains where the glow of the lamp was too weak to reach and the shadows clotted thickly. In the far corner of the room she saw a figure with a defeated slump to its shoulders. She knew it was her own reflection, captured within the elaborately curlicued frame of the tall standing mirror.
The minutes ticked away one by one by one. Tick following tock following tick. She was beginning to feel drowsy once more, so very sleepy. Her head was enormous on her neck. Though she tried, she could not keep her eyelids from sagging.
Blackness.
Blackness and Alette standing next to her bed; placing her finger against her lips. ‘Shh. Don’t wake Mother. You’ve had a bad dream.’
Blackness as Justin’s hand moves over her face; his fingers masking her eyes. The rubbery feel of his thighs and buttocks. His lips sucking the breath from her mouth.
Writ in Water Page 58
