by Carrie Elks
“Nice to see you, Cameron.” I try to keep my voice even, stripping it of anything he could misconstrue. I count my efforts as successful when he just shrugs and walks to the back of the room. One of the few wise things my dad taught me, back when I was young enough for him to take an interest, was to celebrate the small victories. So inside I give a little jig.
In the end, they all decide to make get-well cards for Niall. I can’t help but find this funny. What I wouldn’t give to be a fly in the wall when he gets fifteen hand-made cards for an affliction he doesn’t even have. I’m definitely going to get these cards to him, not just because I’m feeling passive aggressive right now, though in my nervy state that’s motive enough. The reason I really want to send them to him is I want him to come back. I miss him. I want to see him.
I’m beginning to realise what it is I truly want.
“Let me see.” I try to duck under Niall’s outstretched arm so I can twist myself around his body, but he’s too quick for me. Grabbing the shoulder of my t-shirt, he stops my progress.
“Wait. It’s not finished.”
I change tack and nuzzle my face into his neck. If swiftness doesn’t work, maybe seduction will. “Please, please,” I whisper into his throat. “Show me my picture.”
We’ve been doing this for six nights now. Each night he comes to my room we either smoke a joint or pop an E. Then we have sex, followed by a furtive moonlit trip to the art building. He paints into the night, staring at me and then at the canvas, mixing colours frantically like they’re going to disappear.
At first I liked the way he looked at me, with his eyes narrow, and his mouth slightly open. But then he started paying more attention to the canvas than me. A few times, I even fell asleep. When I woke I caught him leaning on the table, staring right down at my naked body, and it sent shivers down my spine. Then I realised he was studying me a little too intently, with pupils that failed to dilate. For a moment, I felt like an object.
“You can see it after exam week,” he murmurs, cupping the back of my head. “It’ll be ready by then.”
Exam week. The words are enough to kill the mood—studying, revising, test practice. All things I’ve failed to do for the past few weeks. My face must fall because the next minute he’s holding me in his arms, kissing me hard and promising I can see it soon.
I kiss him back, but for the first time I’m half-hearted because all I can think is that I’m going to fail. I’ll have to go home and explain to my mum and dad why I’ve managed to royally fuck up my life in the space of a few weeks.
Seeing the painting doesn’t seem half as exciting anymore.
15
“Why do you think you have to choose?” Louise asks. I let my head fall back on my chair as I look around her consulting room. As always, it’s perfectly tidy.
It’s been three weeks since I kissed Niall. The relief I feel about finally voicing my doubts is palpable.
“That’s what you do, isn’t it? Torn between two lovers? I can’t just string two men along, it isn’t the done thing.”
“It’s interesting that you call Niall a lover yet you’ve only kissed him once. Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know.” I frown and rub my eyes. “I think he wanted more.” Or was it me? Am I just projecting my emotions onto Niall? What if all he wanted was a quick, uncomplicated fumble?
He sure chose the wrong girl for that.
“Do you think your shared history has anything to do with it?”
I’ve told Louise everything. Laid all my secrets out like a dysfunctional offering. Shared things with her that I’ve never told a soul, not even Lara. She listens and smiles and empathises with me. Her acceptance gives me a peace I haven’t had before.
“Maybe I’m putting more emphasis on it than I should. But the way he looked at me when I left that night, and the fact he hasn’t been back to the clinic for three weeks...” I let my voice trail off. For the past two Thursdays Niall has sent a stand-in. Michael is nice enough. Good with the children.
But he’s no Niall.
“Okay, so let’s assume he wants something more. It’s still not a simple choice between two men. Can you think of a third option, maybe?”
“Being with them both?” I wrinkle my nose up.
Louise bursts out laughing. It’s the first time I’ve seen her crack more than a smile. I wonder if that’s part of their training, trying not to show violent emotion. Perhaps there’s only space for one crack-up in the therapy room. “No, I wasn’t going to suggest you choose polyamory, though I’m not knocking it either. That sort of arrangement isn’t something you go into lightly.”
“Then what?”
She says nothing, another trick of hers. Louise uses silence the way a carpenter uses a saw. As if on cue, I hurriedly try to break it. “Choose neither?”
“Choose you,” she corrects. “Concentrate on yourself. Get to know what you really want. Love yourself as much as others do.”
I stare at her as though she’s talking a foreign language. “That sounds selfish.”
“Studies show that relationships are more likely to succeed if both partners have high self-esteem. It isn’t selfish to take care of yourself. Think of it as laying strong foundations. So the question you have to ask yourself is ‘what do I want?’”
I sit there in stunned silence. I don’t think anybody’s ever really asked me that before.
* * *
It’s strange how life goes on even as it’s falling apart. Sometimes I wonder how my grandmother coped during the war. Separated for six years from her husband, not knowing if he was dead or alive, yet still she had to sweep the floor, buy the groceries, and clean the toilets. I expect she ate cake with friends—when she had the rationing coupons—and thought about the most mundane things. Somehow, human beings have the ability to survive no matter what’s thrown at them.
As I watch Daisy slowly bring her glass up to her lips, her hands shaking like an old man’s, I marvel that even she has a survival instinct forcing her to go on. A few weeks after kissing Niall, my own survival instinct is a different matter. I smother it with concerns for other people.
“How was she?” Daisy asks. She’s picking at the skin around her thumbnail. A tiny bead of blood glints in the sunlight before she wipes it away, a ruby smudge angling down her thumb.
“She misses you.” I think Daisy needs to hear this. “She wants to come home to you. Did Grace tell you if it’s on the cards?” I know Daisy’s been meeting with her social worker weekly.
Daisy shrugs. “She won’t say. We’re on supervised visits only at the moment. Until I can prove I’m clean and Darren’s not coming back they won’t let her come and live with me.” Her voice is drowned out by the roar of a motorbike engine. We both wait for it to pass by.
“He’s not coming back is he?” I try to swallow down the rising bile. A memory of her lifeless body flashes through my mind.
“He said he wasn’t.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “When he let them… you know.”
It turns out it wasn’t Darren who beat her up, not that it really matters. He was the one who virtually pimped her out to his mates. The one who stood and watched as they bashed her to within an inch of her life. He poisons everything he comes into contact with, and I don’t blame Allegra’s social worker for wanting to keep him away from her.
“Why do you go back to him every time?” Of all people, I shouldn’t be the one asking her this. It’s like asking an addict why they take drugs.
Or why I can’t keep Niall Joseph out of my mind.
“I love him.” Her reply’s so simple it makes me want to cry. That isn’t love. It’s sick and evil. She was so neglected as a kid that any attention equates to love in her book.
“But what about Allegra? What if he ever let someone hurt her as he hurt you?”
Her face twists as I ask the question, her lips turning thin. “Are you telling me I don’t love my kid?” A lock of her dirty-blonde hair falls i
n her eyes as she leans forward. “Don’t you dare fucking say that.”
I’m hasty in backtracking. “Of course not. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s so fucking easy for you to judge me, isn’t it? With your rich husband and lovely house and no worries about anything in life. Maybe Darren was right about you.”
My heart starts to race. I’m never good with confrontation. “What do you mean?”
“He reckons I’m your bit of rough. Your project. He thinks you don’t give a shit about me and Allegra, that you only hang around us to make yourself feel better.”
Her words are a slap in the face. I feel the injustice of them as if it’s a physical thing. “That’s not true. I love you and Allegra.” I want to say more but my voice catches in my throat, scraping at the skin.
“Then why do you judge me? Just because you’ve got the perfect fucking life. You’ve never had to slum it.”
“I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I can’t stand the thought of Darren ever hurting either of you. You deserve better.”
“If you think I’d ever let anybody hurt my baby you know fuck all. I can’t believe you even said it.” She pulls out a cigarette and slides it between her dry lips. “If I hear you’ve said anything to the social workers I’ll bloody whack you.”
I don’t think she means to be intimidating. It’s the way she is—the way she has to be—in order to get by. Life has taught her it’s either fight or flight, and she’s chosen to punch her way through the bad times. Part of me is glad she’s coming out with her fists held high, that she’s not going to let things bring her down. But it’s still scary in the firing line.
The cafe door bangs open as the waitress comes out with our food. A teacake for Daisy and a piece of toast for me. Daisy pulls out the raisins before she butters it, piling them on the side of her white plate until they resemble a mound of dead flies. I scrape the butter across my own toast even though I have no appetite. The sound of my knife against the crunchy bread is better than the silence.
“I wouldn’t come between you and Allegra,” I say, finishing the dregs of my lukewarm tea. “I know how much she wants to come home.”
Daisy seems mollified, though I’m not sure if it’s my words or food in her stomach that softens her up. “I want her home. I won’t do anything to endanger that.” When I look up she’s staring at me through watery eyes. “Help me,” Daisy begs. “Help me get my baby back.”
“How?”
“Tell Grace I’m better now. Tell her I’m a fit mother. I just want her back. She hates it at the home.”
“I know.” My fingers flex instinctively at the memory of Allegra’s fearful hand clutching mine. “I want her out of there as much as you do. But you’re going to have to convince them you’re clean for good.”
“I am.” Daisy’s reply is vehement. “I wouldn’t risk Allegra for a high.”
I try not to think of all the occasions she’s done exactly that. The times when Allegra has found her mother out cold on the floor, or the nights when Daisy disappeared for hours, leaving her kid alone in the dark. History teaches us life follows a pattern, that things repeat themselves over and over again. Yet human nature makes us hope against hope it isn’t true. That this time will be different.
“You’ll need to prove that Darren’s gone for good.” I almost flinch saying his name, expecting her to turn on me again.
“He wouldn’t have me back, anyway,” she says.
I notice that she’s not denying she still has feelings, or that she’d go running if he clicked his fingers. She’s assuming he won’t be returning. From what I know of Darren, it’s a dangerous assumption to make.
My promises sound weak, even to my own ears, but Daisy’s face lights up as if I’ve just offered her the world. The uneasiness in the air is mine alone and though I try to bury it, still it lingers on.
16
The following week I head across town toward the white stucco building that houses our marriage counsellor. I’m halfway down Harley Street when my phone buzzes, but it’s buried deep within my bag. By the time I’ve rifled through the napkins and leaflets, it’s already rung off.
I don’t recognise the number, although that doesn’t stop my heart from beating a little faster as I press the button for my voicemail, wondering if Niall has finally decided to contact me.
But the voice is female, deep and smooth, telling me my husband is running late, that he won’t be able to make the appointment tonight. No apologies, no excuses, and for some reason that bothers me. It feels like the last straw. You can’t swim against the tide when you’re not even kicking your legs. We’re both drifting, clinging onto the detritus of our marriage, when perhaps we should just let go. Let the current sweep us up, even if it pulls us apart.
In the past month, Simon has managed to attend exactly two counselling appointments. He missed the first one due to a late-running court case. His apologies sounded trite, even to me, and I began to wonder just how committed he was to the whole process. Even at home he’s been quiet, holing up in his office, head bent over papers and depositions, only emerging for a coffee or a glass of whisky. While he managed to make the second appointment, he was noticeably silent at the third; contemplative even. He listened to what I had to say but didn’t add anything to it.
It’s almost as though he’s deliberately withdrawing. As if he’s given up before we’ve even started. That puzzles me too, because I feel as though I’m the one making all the effort.
If he was in love with me, wouldn’t he make more time for us? And if I was in love with him, wouldn’t I care more?
Because I still fall asleep every night with Niall’s voice in my mind. With the memory of his lips on mine. If there was something worth saving, I’d be able to block him out. Forget about him.
“Kiss me, Beth.”
The fact is, I’m obsessing about him more than ever. His silence has done nothing more than let me build everything up in my mind, until I’m not even sure how I’m supposed to feel.
One thing I do know is I’m sick of the whole situation. Simon’s silence, the counselling, our marriage.
The thought is freeing. A breath of relief. It allows me to think what I’ve been trying to avoid. The one thing I’ve been too afraid to articulate.
Because deep down inside, I’m not sure I want to save our marriage.
The thought has been floating around in my mind for weeks. Each time I’ve tried to ignore it, it’s come back stronger. A child that won’t be overlooked. It taps at my brain, sticking its tongue out at me. Reminding me that happily ever after isn’t an option here.
From the way he hasn’t bothered turning up yet again at our counselling session, I’m starting to think that maybe Simon doesn’t want to save it, either.
* * *
I wait for three hours, sitting on our brown leather sofa, barely looking at the magazine that’s open on my legs. Three cups of coffee have kept me awake, the bitter taste lingering in my mouth, along with a headache that throbs at the base of my skull.
It’s almost eleven when I hear his key turn in the door. There’s a pause before wood bangs against plaster.
“Hello.” He pops his head around the door to the living room. “I didn’t expect you to be up.”
I’ve been going to bed early. Mostly so I can pretend to be asleep by the time he crawls under the covers, but also because I’m knee deep in organising the clinic’s annual gala. Both things are exhausting.
“I waited up for you.”
He winces. “Are you very angry? Because I can explain...”
“I’m not angry at all.” In spite of my emotions earlier this evening, I’m the calmest I’ve felt in a while.
Simon steps inside, his dress shoes clipping against the wooden floor. When he’s sat down, he leans forward, clasping his hands together. “Aren’t you going to ask me where I’ve been?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He carries on as if I haven�
�t said anything. “I was with Elise.”
“Is everything okay?” Simon’s daughter and I may not be bosom buddies, but I still care.
“Not really. It seems her accountant’s made a mess of her tax return, and it’s sparked an investigation. We’re going to have to get someone else to look at the books.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I murmur. “I hope she isn’t too upset.”
He shrugs. “We’ll sort it out. She still wants to take a table at the gala.”
That’s good. With only four weeks to go, it would be a pain to have to find another donor.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” I say. My heart starts to speed up; it’s one thing to think about doing something, but the execution is something quite different. Tears spring to my eyes before I can even say the words.
“I don’t think the marriage counselling is working.”
Shock freezes Simon’s face. It takes him some moments to collect himself enough to respond. “You said you weren’t angry...”
“I’m not angry.” I scoot forward, trying to cut down the distance between us. “I’m not saying this out of anger, or because I’m being a bitch. I’m not saying it because I want to hurt you or upset you—”
“Then what is it, Beth? You know how busy I am. I’m doing my best here to keep things together. What more do you want?” For the first time, he sounds passionate.
“I just think that if our marriage was your first priority, then you’d come to counselling, regardless.”
“I have a job. A daughter. Do you want me to ignore them? Just look after little Beth and pretend nothing else matters?”
I drop my head into my hands. “No, that’s not what I mean. Of course those things are important. But we’re not moving forward here. Only backward.” When I look up, he’s staring angrily at me. I try not to cower away.
“Then tell me what to do. What will make you happy?”
I open my mouth but no words come out. Instead I’m remembering Louise’s suggestion. That I should choose me, work on my own self-esteem. I can’t remember the last time anybody asked me what would make me happy.
