Ryan switched to my other foot. I sank beneath the water and bubbled the air out of my lungs. If I stayed under long enough, would I find it again? That slow, sleepy slip road that almost took me where I wanted to go.
After a while my eyes bulged and my chest strained, but I refused to break the rippling skin of the water. Ryan tugged at my foot, shouted my name. I pressed myself against the floor of the bath.
‘Cassie.’
He hoisted me up to the surface, and I flopped over the side of the bath, fighting for oxygen like a fish just landed.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ His face was taut with alarm.
‘Your turn,’ I gasped, ‘see if you can beat that.’
He splashed water at me. An angry gesture not a playful one.
‘Crazy bitch,’ he said.
39
Tuesday, 15 December 2015
‘My mother forgot my birthday today,’ I tell Leo. Leo is a barman at The Old Street, a hip hotel in Shoreditch. He has intense blue eyes and black dreadlocks tied back from his angular face.
‘That sucks,’ he says as he places my second vodka Martini on the glass surface of the circular bar.
‘She’s in a care home with dementia, so I suppose I’ll let her off.’
An awkward pause before Leo excuses himself to serve a waiting customer.
It does suck. Forty-three today, and I will never receive a birthday card from my mother again. I sip my cocktail. 5.30 p.m. and I’m drinking vodka. Might as well admit I want to lose control and obliterate this depressing day. I woke up groggy this morning and trudged to work in the dark, my body bewildered by lack of light. In the staff room, my equally jaded colleagues and I exchanged muted hellos. No one knew about my birthday, and I didn’t mention it.
At lunchtime, I phoned Birch Grove to speak to Mum, but Kegs found her sleeping. He said she’s been sleeping a lot the past few days and hardly eating anything when awake. I asked to speak to Emma instead but she had the day off. Pity. She would have found a way to cheer me up.
My bar stool swivels as I cross my legs. My dress falls away from my thighs, forcing me to yank it back again. The mauve, silk wrap-around hasn’t had an outing for months, and I’m regretting my decision to wear it. Draughts swirl around the spacious bar and lounge area, raising goosebumps on my arms. The sheer black stockings beneath the dress do nothing to keep me warm, and I should have worn boots, not these stupid black stilettos. Earlier, up in the hotel room—the room I booked and John will pay for—changing into my outfit gave me a thrill. Now I feel self-conscious, obvious. A woman gift-wrapped for sex.
What am I doing here? I think about leaving, but John appears. His arm around my waist, his lips on my cheek.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he says, ‘happy birthday.’
***
An hour later, I’m halfway through my third martini and my mood has lifted. John and I have taken over one of the grey sofas by the log fire at the back of the lounge. The place is packed, buzzing with after-work energy. A house music soundtrack sets the mood—classics like ‘Voodoo Ray’ from my era and modern stuff I don’t recognise but tap my foot along to anyway.
‘They wind me up,’ John says, concluding a rant about bearded young men on laptops. Plenty of them here, typing away in earnest at tables and in armchairs. ‘I mean, what do they actually do?’
‘You sound so middle-aged.’ He looks different in his navy blue work suit. Smaller, more ordinary.
He laughs. ‘I am middle-aged.’ He picks up a prawn skewer from the sharing platter we ordered earlier but have hardly touched.
I gasp as ‘Don’t Fight It, Feel It’ by Primal Scream comes over the speakers. ‘Love this song.’ I sway side to side, aware I have transitioned from tipsy to drunk. My dress shifts further up my thighs, but I don’t pull it down. I notice a small red stain near the hem. Wine? When did that happen?
‘Sorry,’ John says, reaching into his jacket pocket and fishing out his trilling phone. He checks the screen. ‘Better get this.’
I stop swaying to the music and sit stock-still in my seat. He doesn’t need to say who’s calling. He’s supposed to be in Manchester tonight after a conference there, but he took a train back early so we could spend the night together. Not in honour of my special day, his free night just happened to be tonight. I wish I hadn’t even mentioned my birthday.
‘Hi.’ John stands up and moves towards the main doors. He steps out into the night, phone clamped to his ear. A hole opens up between my sternum and belly button. Again I consider leaving, but the thought of my empty bed and the tiny hand waiting for me in my sleep keeps me glued to the sofa.
Opening my handbag, I take out my phone, just for something to do. An urge to e-mail Emma comes over me. A short message, just to thank her again for her help at the weekend, but I don’t want to hassle her. We got much more done at Mum’s than I’d anticipated, although we did waste time messing about with the Mills and Boon books. After Emma read out a dreadful passage about a Victorian heiress pining for her soulmate, I asked her if she believed in true love.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘I’ve been waiting for someone special my whole life.’
John returns, the cold from outside clinging to him. When he sits down, I shove my phone in my bag and drag him towards me. His tongue is hot and keen in my mouth. When we separate, I see a blur of faces looking our way.
‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ I say, ‘and when I come back you’re going to take me upstairs.’
Leaving my handbag with him, I weave my way across the lobby. There is a queue in the ladies, and by the time I return, John is at reception. I watch him take a wad of notes from his briefcase. He’s paying for the room now, in cash. A small detail, but a sordid one.
Deflated, I pick up my bag from the sofa. John turns and waves me over. I follow him to the lift.
***
As soon as we enter the room, John presses me up against the wall and lifts my dress. After unzipping himself, he wraps my legs around his waist, yanks my black lace knickers to one side and pushes into me. When we tire of the wall, we make use of the floor and the writing desk before collapsing onto the bed, slick with sweat, our clothes and underwear littering the carpet.
The king-size bed is adorned with far too many cushions. I throw a few aside and try to get comfortable. John’s chest rises and falls against mine. I am suddenly sober, as if the sex has chemically reacted with all the vodka and neutralised its effects.
‘Christ,’ he says, ‘it’s not often sex actually lives up to your fantasies.’
Irritation rushes through me. We have just enacted a scene from John’s imagination, and I could be anyone. I am no one. Worst of all, I cast myself in the role.
‘Honestly,’ he continues, ‘you have no idea the pornographic stunts you get up to in my head.’
‘I need some water.’ I stand up, only to find my instant sobriety hasn’t reached my legs. Staggering to the bathroom, I fill one of the chunky glasses next to the sink with tap water and gulp it back. When I return, John removes a parcel wrapped in black tissue paper from his briefcase and hands it to me.
‘Happy birthday,’ he says. Inside the paper is a lingerie set—matching bra and knickers in a sheer red fabric. He instructs me to try them on.
I obey. The underwire of the bra digs into my ribcage. The knickers are the wrong size too, the elastic cutting deep into my flesh.
‘Wow,’ John says, oblivious to his error, ‘knockout.’ This underwear isn’t for me. This underwear is for the woman in John’s head, the fantasy I can never fulfil. I see me and Dan fucking in our kitchen, clamped together on a chair, his arms around my waist. His mocking eyes daring me to step out of character. Daring me to fail.
‘I want to make love,’ I say.
John frowns. ‘We just did.’
‘You know what I mean.’
He hesitates just long enough to prove he does. ‘What’s wrong? Do you want another drink?’
‘
No.’ I feel like old snow, soiled and slushy and no fun anymore.
‘Grace, come on.’ He grabs my waist and draws me close.
‘Please,’ I whisper. That fine line glitters, and this time we cross it. He pulls me onto the bed and kisses me, stroking the top of my legs until they part for him. Edging his way down the bed, he peels off the tight knickers and settles his head between my thighs. The tenderness of his tongue lures tears from me.
‘This is only for you,’ he says. ‘I don’t do this for anyone but you.’
As if he is giving me diamonds.
He is soon inside me, and I don’t realise my eyes are closed until he tells me to look at him. I try, but too much occurs to me at once. That I have never had sex with the intent of creating a child and probably never will. That my pregnancy was no accident. I got pregnant because I lacked the confidence to protect myself, or to insist that Dan protect me, fearing that to do so would drive him away. I valued his opinion of me more than I valued my own. Valued it so much I took risks I shouldn’t have.
John whispers my name in my ear. He is at my core, undoing me, and I might never be able to shut down again. I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but it is too late.
His ejaculation triggers a fizzing deep within me, tiny celebratory fireworks. My body still fooled, even though his semen will never fulfil its purpose.
After he withdraws, John kisses me on the cheek and goes to the bathroom. His redundant sperm trickles down my inner thighs.
He stays in the bathroom for a long time, and upon emerging he cannot meet my eyes. He asks if I fancy a drink now and crouches down to open the mini bar. He recites its contents to me, trying to talk himself back over the line we have crossed, back to a place where we can drink and screw, but he’s too late. I don’t want to go back there, which means our affair can’t go on.
‘We should quit while we’re ahead,’ I say. He feigns confusion, but I can tell the same thought has crossed his mind. ‘This can’t go anywhere.’
He kneels next to the bed and takes my hand. ‘I didn’t think that was a problem.’
‘It will be.’ Weariness colonises my bones. ‘These things always get messy.’
His shoulders slump. ‘I didn’t realise you had such strong feelings for me.’
I don’t but am too tired to correct him. I just want to leave and be on my own.
‘You’re amazing,’ he says, ‘but I can’t risk hurting my family.’ I see he has always known he would one day sacrifice this temporary pleasure for his lasting happiness.
‘I’d never want you to hurt them.’ I recover my clothes and get dressed under his remorseful gaze. He asks me to stay the night, but I refuse.
‘We’re bound to see each other at Birch Grove,’ he says.
I pull on my coat and pick up my bag. ‘We’re adults, we’ll manage.’
He rings reception and orders me a taxi. He offers me cash for it, which I don’t accept.
At the door of the room, we kiss goodbye.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he says.
***
When my taxi turns into Goswell Road, I begin the ritual search for my keys. It is then I discover the other present John bought me. A small black box at the bottom of my handbag. As the taxi jolts along, I open it and am stunned to find a necklace inside. Attached to the delicate chain is a solid silver heart with an inscription on it.
Happy Birthday
He must have put it in my bag when I went to the toilet. A touching gesture. I take out my phone and bring up his number, no longer sure if I’ve made the right decision.
I press the green call button, but he doesn’t pick up. Probably for the best. I coil the necklace back into the box and bury it safe in the depths of my bag.
40
Monday, 11 September 1995
Royal Edinburgh Hospital
Three weeks after the procedure, I began smoking joints of black Moroccan hash in an attempt to get a good night’s sleep. The dope helped me drift off and sometimes kept the nightmare at bay, but when I was awake, paranoia set in. I often heard a baby crying next door, pitiful wails that floated through the walls. The house next door was empty.
The hash made me hungry too. The stress of the previous month had made eating almost impossible, but now I undertook regular trips to the 24-hour garage at the end of the road to buy salted peanuts, Milky Ways and loaves of white sliced bread. I was always starving, and it didn’t take me long to gain half a stone. I should have stopped there, but every time I thought about Dan and Stella I rolled another joint and induced another attack of the munchies. Dan had called me from a payphone the week after I had the termination. As soon as I heard his voice, I knew what he wanted. I told him it was done and then I hung up. At least he and Stella were back on tour so I had less chance of bumping into them.
My sluggish body with the extra pounds around the middle didn’t feel like it belonged to me. I didn’t go out much, preferring to stay hidden away. The manager of the pub rang to offer me shifts, but I turned them down. My former friends still drank there and would know about Dan and Stella. I couldn’t face anyone gloating that they’d told me so. Nor did I want to tell anyone about the termination. That was my business. My dole payments covered some basics, and I dipped into Dad’s life insurance money to pay my rent and bills. Despite my immense relief at not being pregnant anymore, I couldn’t motivate myself to get my life together. Each night, I resolved to get back on the audition circuit, or at least find part-time work, but, when dawn came, I’d cosy up on the sofa with Marmite on toast, a mug of tea and my first spliff of the day.
The weeks passed. Mum rang every Sunday afternoon, as usual. Our terse exchanges never lasted long. She’d asked me to phone her after ‘it’ was over so she’d know I was okay. During that call, I’d mentioned feeling tired and weepy. She told me not to expect any sympathy from her. Not after what I’d done.
We never mentioned ‘it’ again.
I really thought she would help me. I thought she’d choose me over her beliefs, but I was wrong. She lured me back home promising support and then tried to change my mind. What if you only have this one chance, Grace? What if you have as much trouble conceiving in the future as I did? She spoke in detail about her three miscarriages and revived the familiar tale of my troublesome gestation and agonising birth. The miracle of me. She laid out photo albums on the kitchen table and showed me pictures of myself in my first weeks of life. Look at your hands, Grace. Your tiny little hands. I’ll never forget the first time you gripped my finger.
She wouldn’t accept my reasons. What career, Grace? You can’t honestly think you’ll make it as an actress? You can cope without the father, Grace. You and the baby can move in with me. You can work and I’ll do the childcare. Her desperation scared me. As if she’d do anything to fill the void left by Dad’s premature departure. Or perhaps that longing for another child had never left her.
‘I’m only trying to help,’ she said when I refused her offers of assistance. No way would my child grow up hostage to Mum’s grief and maternal longings.
‘I’m having an abortion,’ I said.
She warned me not to do it. She was standing by the kitchen sink, looking at the Virgin Mary statue on the windowsill.
I asked her what else I was supposed to do? Have the baby adopted? The suggestion made her furious. She said she’d never allow that. No way. No way would she let a stranger bring up her grandchild.
‘She’s my responsibility,’ I shouted, ‘not yours.’ Mum got all excited about me calling the baby ‘she’ when I couldn’t possibly know the sex yet. She said that was my instinct talking. She said she could tell I wanted to keep my child.
I insisted I didn’t and said it was my choice. She gazed out into the garden and told me that choices have consequences. When I asked what she meant, she came over to the table, knelt beside my chair and placed her hands on my belly.
‘Don’t do it, Grace,’ she said, ‘it’s a sin.’
‘What, and I’ll be punished?’ I replied.
She said nothing but the pitying look she gave me said, yes, you will be punished.
41
Saturday, 19 December 2015
Everyone at Birch Grove was grumpy and out of sorts. An hour-long power cut this morning meant we fell behind with the breakfasts and didn’t get most residents washed and dressed until nearly lunchtime. On top of that, Kegs almost had a fight with Troy, Len Daley’s grandson. He’d caught the two of them having a fag out of Len’s window and had dragged the skinny boy into the corridor and thrown him out the building.
During all the drama, I couldn’t stop thinking about last night’s escapade, my initial elation dissolving into dread. The deed I’d carried out in a cold rage now loomed over me. What if it backfired?
I could hear Isobel’s voice in my head… You don’t think before you act, Cassie. That’s your problem.
My mother turned up at lunchtime, dark rings beneath her eyes. I scrutinised her but found no obvious signs of fallout from my actions last night. She didn’t have the necklace on. I shouldn’t have given it to her; she didn’t deserve it. Yet no matter how much she hurt me, I still wanted to please her.
When she arrived, I was in the middle of washing Grandma’s face with a flannel.
‘Oh, Mum,’ my mother said. She put a hand over her mouth and stood there for some time.
‘You okay?’ I asked.
She Chose Me Page 15
