by Emma Curtis
I blink, to clear my vision, then tear the sheet off and start again. Self-conscious, I curl my arm round my sketch. Nothing is going right today. My throat begins to ache. I look up at Eddie, who has his hands steepled over his stomach. He appears to be finding Graham’s lame story about his landlord hilarious.
The banter is still going on. I make an effort to put a smile into my voice. ‘I’m trying to work, guys. Could you find somewhere else for your party?’
Finn moves round and leans over my shoulder to see what I’m doing. I want to jab back with my elbow, but instead I wait, stiffening every muscle, for him to move away. He picks up the drawing I’ve discarded, and I twist round and yell at him.
‘Give me that!’
‘Whoa.’ He drops it and holds up his hands. ‘Calm down.’
I turn away and grip the edge of my desk. Something is very wrong. I feel as though I’m lurching, like the floor is rippling under my feet, my chair swaying. Am I having a stroke? Faces gurn, pink relief maps formed of bumps and dips that mean nothing. My shoulders, throat and neck are so tight they hurt. I try to speak but the words won’t come.
‘Is she all right?’ someone says.
‘Laura? Laura!’
Every breath I take is painful and barely fills my lungs, and I start to panic in earnest, convinced I’m going to die. I thump the side of my chair with my fist.
Someone is kneeling beside me, her face a pale oval, her hair a dark and shining mass. She tells me it’s OK, she’s here now. She takes hold of my hands. Her voice is like warm honey, smothering the spikes.
‘It’s all right, Laura, you’re having an anxiety attack, but you’re safe. I’m not going to leave you. Breathe deeply. That’s right. You’re doing so well.’
David. David did this.
22
Laura
I AM IN my flat, but I barely remember coming home; or even leaving work. The last thing I remember clearly, Rebecca and Eddie were leading me out of the building. People turned to look at me and it felt like one of those dreams in which you’re naked, and your body starts shattering, and little pieces of you are all over the floor. The rest is a blur.
Eddie propels me gently on to the sofa. He sits, one knee on the seat, facing me.
‘Talk to me.’
I bury my head in my hands and rock my body. I don’t know where to start; words cluster then burst upwards like a flock of starlings disturbed in the treetops. Fragile threads of meaning, of feeling and knowledge, float away. My eyes well with tears which overflow, running down my cheeks and catching in the corners of my mouth.
‘Laura, look at me.’
I raise my eyes to his face and almost laugh. How can I confide in someone I don’t recognize? The loneliness pools at my feet and starts to rise.
‘Give me the number of your GP.’
‘I don’t need a doctor.’
‘Maybe you don’t, or maybe you do. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone.’
Because I can’t and won’t tell him what happened to me, I don’t have any other words to fill the silence. My life has jumped on to a track that I don’t like; I’m losing my way. I stare at my knees for a while and Eddie says nothing, just waits.
‘It’s on the board.’ It’s a relief when the words finally come. It helps to be told what to do.
‘Good girl.’
I get my hopes up when it seems every doctor is fully booked, but Eddie perseveres, and they manage to squeeze me in.
‘Five ten. We should leave soon,’ he says.
‘I can’t go out. I just want to sleep.’
I hug myself and curl away from him into the corner of the sofa. He puts a warm hand on my shoulder.
‘You can sleep later.’
I shake my head.
‘I’m coming with you. You don’t have to do this on your own.’
He treats me like a child, bundling me outside and holding my arm as we walk to the surgery. The doctor is calming and sympathetic. He prescribes rest and recuperation and prints out a letter signing me off work for ten days. Then he promises to refer me to a psychiatrist; but that, he explains, could take up to three months, maybe more.
I tear up the letter as soon as we are out in the street and shove the pieces in my pocket.
‘What’re you doing?’ Eddie asks.
‘I’ll be back in a day or two. I’d have to be dying to take off more than that. You know what it’s like.’
He looks at me sceptically, although he understands. ‘Don’t worry. Rebecca said she’d tell David you had a virus. And listen, I called your mum. I got her number from your phone. She’s on her way.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. I’m not leaving you on your own, and I don’t think Esther would appreciate me spending the weekend in your flat.’
‘Fine.’
Cutting through London, because Mum hates the M25, I fall in and out of sleep. She keeps the radio on and doesn’t try to talk to me, for which I am grateful. I doze with my cheek pressed against the stretch of seat belt at my shoulder, blinking my eyes open occasionally at the tick of the indicator. I feel both childlike and ancient.
What happens now? Do I shut down or do I let people in? I don’t know what to do or who to talk to; I want to bury myself and not think for a while. I want to stop hurting, to stop feeling this way, to rid myself of the horrible voice in my head; the one that says, you could have stopped it happening. It was your fault. You got drunk. You made yourself available. You didn’t use your brain.
I press my nails into the back of my hand. I must stop this. Whatever I did, he had no right to take advantage. In his letter he admitted he knew about me, so he also knows that he should have seen me safely through the door, then gone on his way.
23
Laura
I ONLY WANTED to stay until sunday, but I end up spending over a week in Dorking in the little semi that’s been home since Mum and Dad split up. I overestimated myself or underestimated this thing that has me in its grip. It feels like an illness, but there’s nothing physically wrong. I just sleep a lot, retreating to the bedroom I’ve had since I was eight although it now boasts a king-size double bed. My mother isn’t one of those women who keep their children’s rooms sacred. After we moved out, she redecorated and repurposed. Isabel’s room is where Mum sews the beautiful ragdolls she sells at the craft shop on the high street. Mine is the spare and Mark’s has been converted into an en-suite for guests. The loft is where all her grandchildren sleep.
Days go by and the moment at which I might have told the truth passes without a word. Instead I tell her that I’ve been under a lot of pressure at work. I need to explain the hair, especially as Phoebe has already put her tuppence-worth in. They met when Mum picked me up.
Mum believes it must be man trouble and I don’t deny it. Technically, it’s true. I have one session with a private psychotherapist, but I don’t get much out of it, or I don’t feel like I do. It doesn’t help that I don’t tell her the truth either.
During the day, when I’m not drowsing, I work on the kitchen table to the comforting hum of Mum’s sewing machine above me. I stay in touch with Eddie, developing the storyboards while he plays with the scripts. In the evenings, Mum and I cook together, eat at the kitchen table and move into the sitting room to watch something comforting on the television. We choose programmes like Death in Paradise and Midsomer Murders and avoid anything where the pain goes deeper than the surface.
‘You made it! Fantastic.’
Professor Deborah Robinson kisses my cheek. She’s a tall woman in her mid-forties with black hair sprinkled with grey. I originally found her through an article in the Sunday papers. A woman was explaining why she couldn’t recognize friends and family, and everything she said chimed with me. Prosopagnosia. The word sounded important and medically glamorous. The article mentioned Deborah and said that she was looking for people who suspected they might be face-blind, to help with her research. Mum came with me, and I’ll
always remember how she glowed with pride when Deborah told us how amazing I was to have coped for so long.
I used to take part in her cognitive training programme, which basically means practising at home, distinguishing tiny variations in a selection of faces on a computer, but I gave that up because it was no good to me. It’s all very well staring at someone’s nose trying to remember if so-and-so has a kink or a flat bridge or particularly large nostrils, but it makes them self-conscious and makes you feel like you’re encroaching on their personal space. I stick to what I do best and employ a structural process of elimination to recall defining features. The face is my last port of call.
Working with Deborah has made me more aware of the subtle differences between humans and of the way our brains work. It’s made me less impatient with other people and less inclined to resent them for being lucky enough to be normal. I use strategies without having to think about them, just through being born like this, but Deborah has helped me add to and refine them.
At half past one we stroll across the campus to get some lunch. Southampton University was built in the fifties and consists of dramatic, brutalist concrete structures nestling in sloping, serene landscape gardens. It’s one of those odd places that manages to be both ugly and beautiful at the same time.
We lay claim to a table near the window in the Terrace Restaurant and join the queue for food. I choose the chicken soup with bread and butter and carry it over to the table with a glass of water. Deborah has a sandwich.
‘You said you’re having a tough time,’ she says, as we take off our coats and sit down.
‘Yeah. It’s not been a great year so far.’ I lean on my elbows and press my fingers to my forehead, massaging my temples. Staring at a screen for two and a half hours has left me with the beginnings of a tension headache. The steam from my soup floats up my nose. ‘I did something stupid. I got absolutely plastered at the staff party and got myself into a situation.’
Deborah pauses and asks, ‘What kind of situation?’
I look up at her. Her face gives me nothing. ‘I think I was raped,’ I whisper. It is shockingly hard to say that word.
‘My God, you poor darling. Did you go to the police?’
I shake my head and a tear rolls down my cheek. ‘It wasn’t like that. Nobody dragged me into an alleyway and assaulted me. I invited him back to my flat and had sex with him willingly. Only he wasn’t the guy I thought he was. He knew about me and realized he could take advantage.’ I pick up my napkin, dab it against my eyes and blow my nose and then explain about the shirts. ‘How could I have been so stupid?’
‘You were not stupid,’ Deborah says firmly. ‘Whoever did that to you is evil. You should have reported him.’
I pinch my lips together to stop myself crying. ‘I did think about going to the police, but in the end, I decided not to because I didn’t think they would believe me or take it seriously, since I’d consented. I don’t even know for sure if it was rape.’
‘What do you mean? Of course it was. If somebody exploits your vulnerability and tricks his way into your bed, then it’s rape and you should report it. It doesn’t matter how long ago it happened.’
Despite myself, I smile. It’s the relief, the confirmation by someone other than myself that I have been raped, that I can call it that without feeling the need to explain or convince, without feeling ashamed somehow.
‘Do you know how he found out about you?’ Deborah asks.
‘I’ve no idea. He could have read about it, or maybe he knows someone with the same condition and recognized it.’
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Because you’re not sure?’
I look out of the window, unable to face her pity. ‘Unless I can prove it, it’s my word against his.’
‘Have you spoken to your mother, or a counsellor?’
‘No. I don’t want Mum hearing about this. She worries enough as it is.’
Deborah is agitated, and I’m sorry that I told her. At least when it was just me who knew I only had my own pain to worry about.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Deborah says.
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘I’m playing it by ear. I wrote him a note.’
‘Oh my God, you didn’t?’ Deborah is so horrified she forgets to whisper. I wince, and she reacts instantly, leaning closer and dropping her voice. ‘For heaven’s sake, that’s crazy. You should have left it to the police.’
I shrug. ‘Maybe it was a mistake, but it made me feel better at the time. There’s not much I can do to him, but at the very least I want him to feel threatened.’
‘Yes, but it’s harassment, Laura. And what if you’re wrong?’
‘I’m not. I know it’s him.’
‘What about motive?’
‘Do you need a motive to rape someone? I was drunk, and he saw an opportunity. He was drunk too, so maybe he lost control and his moral judgement went out the window.’
For the first time I wonder if he was drunk. Everyone else was; but David? I have no proof of that either. I suppose it depended on whether he had originally been intending to drive home.
Deborah takes a bite of her sandwich and I drink my soup. She sits back and studies me.
‘Promise me you won’t write any more notes. And at least think about reporting him.’
‘All I want is to forget about it and get my life back on track. I hate him, and I want him to pay, but I don’t want to go through a court case and have some pissy defence lawyer pick apart everything I say.’
‘Even with me as an expert witness?’ she says.
‘You’d do that for me?’
‘Absolutely. What he did to you was wicked and cruel.’
‘But then everyone would know about me.’ There is a plaintive note in my voice and I blush. I don’t like sounding like a wimp.
‘In your note, did you threaten him with the police?’
I grimace. ‘No. He has no idea what I might do. But one thing I do know, from recent experience, is that we fear most what we know least about. As long as he doesn’t know what to expect, I can keep him in a state of fear for as long as I like.’
‘He may be too arrogant to be scared,’ Deborah says. ‘He probably thinks he’s got away with it.’
She’s right about the arrogance, but not about the rest. ‘No, he doesn’t. I promise you, Deborah. He doesn’t think that at all.’
Eddie calls when I’m on the train. I can feel the excitement in his voice.
‘We’ve just heard,’ he says. ‘GZ have confirmed. We pulled it off.’
‘That’s fantastic.’ I look out of the window at the fields whipping by, at the pylons in the distance. I trace my finger through the patch of mist left by my breath. An upside-down face. One of the ways of explaining the experience of face-blindness to others is to show them familiar faces upside down and ask them to identify the person. It’s surprisingly hard. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’ Why didn’t Rebecca or David call me as soon as they knew? Have they forgotten about me already?
‘Me too. You missed out on David’s big moment. I expect he or Rebecca will call you later, fill you in. But this is down to you, Laura. It was your idea. When’re you back?’
‘Monday,’ I say firmly. It’s Friday afternoon now; ready or not, I need to be there. I’ve missed out on too much already.
As soon as Eddie hangs up, my phone rings again: Rebecca.
I fold my things into my case and carry it down to the front hall. Mum is sorting out scraps of fabric on the kitchen table and when she turns I experience that nanosecond of confusion. The part of my brain that ignores context and the obvious, thinks, What is that woman doing in my mother’s kitchen?
Then I hug her like I haven’t done since I was a child.
‘You’re going,’ she says. It’s a statement of fact.
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These last few days have convinced me that I’m not mad or incapable. It’s vital that I get well quickly. I can’t allow David Gunner space to breathe. He may be hoping I’ll leave the company, and I might one day. But not yet.
‘Please don’t worry about me. I know the signs now and, if it happens again, I’ll get help long before it gets that bad.’
She cups my face with her hands and looks straight into my eyes. ‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
When I fell apart last week, I was close to resigning and turning my back on the whole miserable mess, even if it meant letting him get away with it. The pressure bearing down on me was too intense, the task too unpleasant. But talking to Deborah has hardened my resolve. It’s my life he’s turned upside down, my job that’s at risk, and it was my body, my privacy and my sense of self he violated. I am taking them back.
24
Laura
AS SOON AS I get home I go out again, up to the Heath. I run past the ponds and up the hill where there are children flying kites and people taking in the views of the city, enjoying their weekend. I run down the other side, through the trees and up towards Kenwood House, through the woods and round the lakes. Two swans lift their heads and then plunge them back into the water. I pick paths at random, relaxed and beginning to enjoy myself, up and down the hills, feeling alive and almost normal. Better for spending time with my mother, better for the space it gave me.
As I jog round a bend, I see a group of teenagers up ahead. Five of them, wearing hoodies, one of them pulling a dog on a leash. They look like they’re between fourteen and sixteen years old, pumped with testosterone and full of attitude. The dog’s a Staffie and is wearing a spiked collar and its eyes are as dark as its coat. It strains towards me and barks twice, before being yanked back. As I catch up, they turn to watch me but don’t move out of the way, forcing me to veer off the path on to the muddy verge. One of them says something obscene and I have to physically restrain myself from whirling round and laying into them. Another chases me but gives up after a few metres.
