The Storm

by Amanda Jennings

  I check the clock on the wall.

  ‘I should get to the shops.’

  ‘Yes. And I,’ she says with purpose, ‘must get back to make two World Book Day costumes for tomorrow morning. Any idea what I can make with some bin bags, a newspaper and about half an hour?’

  She takes her bag off the back of the chair and reaches in for her purse and a packet of Marlboro Lights. She tucks a ten-pound note under the salt cellar and puts the cigarettes on the table in front of me. Visiting time is over.

  ‘See you next week and, in the meantime, enjoy being the proud wife of the award-winning citizen.’

  I drop the cigarettes into my bag and we give each other a hug. ‘Thank you,’ I say.’

  Outside I notice the young gull has lost his crust of bread and is huddling, rather sorrowfully, in the doorway of the shop next door.

  Chapter Three

  Hannah

  Even after all these years, the effort of keeping the bad stuff at bay can overwhelm me, and when it gets too much I’ll retreat for a short while to the built-in cupboard in our bedroom. It’s a habit, and I should stop it, but the small dark space feels safe, as if I could hide there forever and nobody would find me. Vicky mentioning the old days brought it all crashing down around me. I’m taken by a sudden panic. I leave the shopping bags and run upstairs. My breath is coming in shorts gasps. I wrench open the cupboard door, slide the clothes along the rail and crawl in, careful not to catch myself on the exposed carpet gripper, left when we removed the old carpet to reveal the floorboards. I pull the door closed until only a blade of light slices the darkness. There’s a vague scent of long-since removed mothballs. The washing powder I use. A hint of dampness in the floorboards.

  The recollections come at me in toxic flashes like fragments of a hateful photograph torn into pieces.

  The burn of vodka on the back of my throat.

  Cam’s simmering anger. The incomprehension in Nathan’s eyes. Vicky’s laugh.

  A shot of sambuca lit with a green plastic lighter. The heat on my hand as I extinguish the flame. Swill the glass. Breathe in hot fumes. Drink. Drink.

  Drink.

  Don’t blister your mouth!

  Who said that?

  Another shot. A new song on the jukebox. Blur. ‘Girls and Boys’. Vicky dancing, eyes closed, hands above her head.

  Where are you?

  So many people. Faces blurred. Names forgotten. Pushing through their sweating bodies. The sting of freezing drizzle. Empty streets.

  Where are you?

  Footsteps.

  Muffled voices. Distant music from the pub. Disembodied laughter.

  Then come his eyes. Staring. Their shocked glassiness burrowing through the softest parts of me. The unspoken words.

  Everything is changed now.

  I see him in the water. His hair sways in the quiet like seaweed. Skin ashen. Mouth stretched wide in a frozen cry…

  Nausea spirals through me and I shake my head to dislodge the image, but it holds firm. I hit my hand against the floor and a sharp pain shoots up my arm. The nails on the gripper have torn into my skin. I stifle a cry and lift my hand to my mouth. The taste of blood creeps over my tongue.

  In the bathroom I hold my finger beneath the tap until the blood stops streaking the water. I turn the tap off then dry the cut and take a plaster from the cabinet. I apply it too tightly and my finger throbs angrily beneath. Back in the bedroom, I close the cupboard door, straighten the bedcovers and plump the pillows, and scour the room for anything out of place. The air is hot and stuffy up here. I’d love to throw up the sash windows but they are sealed shut with decades of repainting.

  Downstairs I set about making our supper. Our kitchen is straight from the pages of a farmhouse-style feature in an interiors magazine, with worn flagstones, a leather armchair with a tartan wool blanket draped over it. A collection of copper pans in different sizes hang over the oak baker’s table. They get a polish every other week. On a Wednesday. Nathan likes things to look beautiful. He likes me to look beautiful. He tells me I’m beautiful often.

  ‘You,’ he says, fixing his gaze on me, ‘are a beautiful thing.’

  He enjoys it when other men notice me. If he catches sight of a man giving me a second look, his chest puffs out, and he takes hold of my hand. I own her, his body language says. She is mine. He particularly likes it if the man looking is someone he views as beneath him. Like the Spanish beach attendant on holiday who appeared like an obedient dog to the click of my husband’s fingers. When his gaze lingered on my breasts, a scornful smile grazed Nathan’s face.

  ‘An umbrella for my wife.’

  ‘Of course. This will be ten euro, señor.’

  ‘For an umbrella? Ha! You lot are bold as brass.’

  The man gave a curt nod and smiled as he slipped Nathan’s money into the pocket of his snow-white shorts. I watched him twisting the stake of the parasol into the sand and imagined – for one moment – he was driving it into my husband’s head, straight through his eye, rotating it one way then the next until Nathan stopped moving and his blood ran in rivulets into the sand.

  When the man finished putting up the parasol, I thanked him.

  He smiled. ‘De nada, bella señora.’

  The kitchen is the type of quiet that hums. I listen hard for footsteps or the sound of the study door creaking open. The unrest which seeps out of Nathan’s study taints everything. Sometimes I wish his father would get on with appearing. I’m sick of him threatening to. Though if he did I’d be screwed. I could scream as loud as my lungs would let me in this house and nobody would hear. I miss neighbours. My mother used to chat to ours over the wall in the back yard. A pot of wooden pegs on the brick wall, a basket of washing waiting to go out on the retractable line which spanned the sunlit concrete space. I fondly remember the peals of laughter and exclamations and snippets of gossip which would drift in through the open doors and windows. I think it’s the deadened silence in this house that gets to me the most.

  Cass raises her head as I retrieve a copper pan from the hook. I heat some olive oil and soften chopped onions, carrots, a stick of celery, before turning up the heat and browning some lamb mince. I add tomato puree, a splash of Worcestershire sauce, and some beef stock. While it’s simmering, I make the mashed potatoes. I take my time. It needs to be free from even the tiniest lump. I transfer the mince into the Le Creuset dish Nathan gave me for our first anniversary and spoon on an even layer of mash. I bend down so I’m at eye level with the dish and then methodically run a fork over the surface to etch perfect parallel lines into the fluffy potato. My eyes water with concentration.

  I place the pie on the side, ready to go into the oven, then I set the table

  Three places.

  I imagine they are for me, Alex and you, Cam. I know, it’s a silly, girlish fantasy, but I don’t care. It warms me from the inside. I imagine you will come in through the back door, tall and rugged, and smelling of fish and engine oil and cigarettes. I’ll raise my fingers to the back of your head and weave them into your gypsy black curls that brush your collar. Your lips are rough against mine when we kiss. Your hands chilled from the winter air.

  It’s always cold when I remember you.

  I put out three glasses and three plates, the bottle of Worcestershire sauce in front of the plate at the head of the table, then I consult the clock. This is a game I play. I like to set the final item – the salt cellar – as the clock strikes five. Today I’m a little early so I hover above the table, hand poised, eyes fixed on the face of the clock. When the minute hand hits the twelve, I set the salt cellar down and step away. I cast a triumphant smile at Cass, but she remains unimpressed and sighs heavily, whilst making herself more comfortable in her basket.

  Alex plays football on a Tuesday night and won’t be home until half past seven, and Nathan arrives home at six. I have one hour until he walks in. I climb the stairs slowly, my limbs feel heavy and stiff. In our bathroom, I close the door and r
un a bath. There’s a twinge in my lower back when I bend to put the plug in. Age has crept up on me, inched its way into my bones and fibres, thinned my hair, and stolen the rosy hue from my skin. I turn the taps on: the hot on full and a trickle from the cold. I undress and climb in whilst it’s still running. The heat stings, but I force myself to lie back, inhaling against the burn as I submerge my body to the chin. I take the flannel and rub soap vigorously on to it then scrub every inch of my body, face, back of my neck, between my legs, around my breasts and throat. I rinse and scrub again. Soon my skin is tingling and pink. I rub soap on to my legs and shave from ankle to knee, under my arms and along my bikini line. When I’m done I place the razor back in the pot on the side of the bath and climb out and dry myself thoroughly.

  At my dressing table, which is antique and ugly, with dark wood, carved detailing, and an array of tiny drawers with faceted glass knobs, I slowly remove my hairpins and drop them one by one into a shallow china dish. I unwind my bun and brush from root to tip in long sweeping strokes. My hair hangs to the middle of my back. It’s been this way since forever. I often fantasise about hacking it off, cutting away chunks of it until it’s short and boyish. Nathan would be devastated and the thought of his reaction gives me a thrill.

  I apply concealer to the dark circles beneath my eyes and a blemish on my jawline. Then foundation, a lick of brown mascara, and a hint of soft pink blusher. Nothing too much. Nothing unnatural. I dress in his favourite cashmere sweater, the colour of sea-glass, and my mid-length taupe skirt. Navy ballet pumps. No tights. The string of pearls he gave me for Christmas three years ago. The last thing I do is position the black velvet Alice band he likes then smooth my hands over my hair to tame the flyaway strands. As I do, I hear the front door open and close. Perfect timing. I congratulate myself.

  I wait, hands clasped in front of me, facing the bedroom door. I picture him placing his bag down, hanging up his coat, dropping his car keys into the bowl on the hall table. I listen as his footsteps move through to the kitchen. The tap goes on. I see him filling a glass and drinking. I hear the glass on the drainer as he upends it after rinsing. There is quiet as he dries his hands on the freshly washed tea towel I hung over the edge of the sink less than six hours ago.

  Then his footsteps on the stairs.

  Across the landing.

  The door opens and I smile. ‘Hello, darling. How was your day?’

  He kisses my cheek and walks into the room, undoing the knot of his tie. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Glad to be home though. You look lovely; a sight for sore eyes.’

  Nathan has become better looking with age. He has a full head of dark hair speckled with only a handful of fine grey strands. His skin is clear and even and any wrinkles he has are delicate creases rather than deep furrows. His teeth are straight and, although he’d deny it, were whitened by a London dentist a few years ago. He is slim and attractive in a traditionally English way, with good posture, confidence incubated by his private education, and sharply tailored clothes. He has always dressed well. It was one of the first things I noticed when I met him, how clean he appeared, how crisp his shirt was, how neatly trimmed his nails were, and, of course, how soft his hands were compared to the weather-beaten skin I was familiar with. People describe him as handsome now. It’s not something we would have called him back then. In the old days. Back then he had an awkward manner and no swagger. Back then, in the old days, we liked boys with a swagger.

  I unzip my skirt and step out of it, remove my sweater and lay it over the arm of the chair. I slip my Alice band off and rest it on the bedside table then unhook my bra and take my underwear off while he drapes his tie over the chair and unbuttons his collar. When I’m naked he lies me back on the bed. The sheets are soft and fresh, changed yesterday, a Monday job. He kisses me from head to toe. His lips linger softly, softly, and make my skin crawl. He moves between my legs. My thighs. My waist. His hand strokes rhythmically. I breathe slowly and focus on relaxing my body. I used to try and think of Cam, but it wasn’t enough to make it anywhere near enjoyable. I am one of those women for whom sex is a chore not a pleasure. But I’m good at pretending. I’ve had years of practice. I detach myself. Go through the motions. Arch my back. Ease my hips upwards. Moan. But not too loudly. Don’t want to be off-putting. He responds to my noises with greater urgency. I twitch and twist. Scrunch my fingers into his hair. Clench and unclench the muscles in my stomach and around my pelvis as I fake a climax.

  Nathan moves away from me and smiles, drunk on the false knowledge he pleased me.

  ‘Thank you. That was lovely. I’ve been desperate for you to come home all day.’ As I recite my lines I stare at the shaft of evening light that strikes through the ceiling.

  He smiles and leans over to kiss my forehead, before manoeuvring himself to sitting on the edge of the bed. He circles his arm and grips his shoulder, wincing slightly as he manipulates the joint. I get out of bed and dress in the green sweater and taupe skirt then sit back down at my dressing table. I reposition the Alice band then lick my finger and wipe beneath my eyelid to remove a smudge of mascara.

  ‘Supper at seven?’ he asks as he stands behind me and rests a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Yes.’ I pat his hand and smile. ‘Shepherd’s pie tonight.’

  ‘Delicious.’ He squeezes my shoulder. ‘I love your shepherd’s pie.’

  Chapter Four

  Nathan

  I knew from that first moment that you were the one. My sister was right: when you know, you know.

  I was back in Cornwall. At Trevose. A holiday of sorts before I left for Paris. The noise and squabbling politics of the law firm were getting on top of me. Until you’ve worked in an environment like that you cannot understand how irritating other people are. My colleagues were vacuous and lacked discipline. They were inexplicably convinced of their own self-worth when all they really wanted to do was spend money on cocaine and strip clubs. I needed some space. Needed to escape London and breathe in some unpolluted air. So there I was, in the kitchen I grew up in, and out of the blue I was hit with an overwhelming urge for a crab sandwich. I recalled Newlyn had both a fishmonger and a bakery, and given it was only a short drive away, that’s where I headed. I’m not a godly man but, to this day, I believe a greater power was in charge of me, making decisions, leading me to you.

  I parked near the Tolcarne Inn and walked down Creeping Lane towards the harbour with a vague recollection of where the bakery was. It was exactly where I remembered. Pleased with myself, I pushed open the door and the bell jingled lightly. As I walked in, you looked up and smiled. It was in that instant I knew.

  It makes me cringe to recall how I stood there, mute, my mind blank, a shameful pink blush inching up from my collar to cover my cheeks. You were exquisite, long hair plaited loosely, blemish-free skin which glowed, a neat pixie nose, petite but well proportioned. You reminded me of a sun-kissed china doll.

  ‘Hi,’ you said.

  One word. Like a note of music.

  Hi.

  Was I supposed to reply? Say hi? Or hello or good morning? I opened my mouth, but my tongue was tangled in humiliating knots.

  ‘What can I get for you?’

  A smile that sent shivers through me. I had to speak but still there was nothing. If I wasn’t rooted to the spot I’d have turned and bolted. I prepared myself for laughter or a disdainful sneer, but instead your brow creased with gentle concern.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  The gentleness in your voice relaxed me. ‘Bread,’ I managed to say. ‘A loaf of bread. Please.’

  Another smile. ‘Lovely. White or brown? Or we’ve got a nice one with seeds in?’

  You hovered your hand, sheathed in blue, near the rows of loaves neatly lined up in red plastic trays. You glanced back at me, over your shoulder, waiting for my reply.

  ‘It’s for a sandwich. Crab.’

  What an idiotic thing to say. Again I expected ridicule. Again I was wrong.

  ‘Oh, delicious! Y
ou’ll definitely be wanting wholemeal then.’ You dropped a loaf into a paper bag and gifted me another smile. ‘Wholemeal makes the best crab sandwiches. Slice the bread thick, spread both slices with a little mayo and some butter – not marg – pile on the crab meat, white and brown, then give it a squeeze of lemon and a bit of salt and pepper. Oh, it’s making my mouth water just thinking about it! Are you going next door for the crab? You should. They sell the best in Cornwall. Fresh and sweet.’

  The words fell out of your mouth like a waterfall. When you handed me the loaf our fingers brushed.

  Did you do that on purpose?

  ‘God, I tell you what, I love a crab sandwich.’

  Then you smiled again.

  My fingers fumbled hopelessly when it was time to pay and, stupidly, I managed to drop a handful of coins which scattered on the floor like pieces of a broken vase. I swore under my breath. My ineptitude was embarrassing. As I hastily tried to pick up the money, I was aware of you coming out from behind the counter, bending to help, your delicate fingers closing around the copper coins. I stared at your hands. Tanned skin. Softened with moisturiser. Slender fingers, nails free of tarty polish, natural, healthy and clean, filed into even arcs, a half-moon of white at their base.

  You held out the coins you’d gathered and for a split second our gazes locked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Butter fingers.’

  ‘Don’t be silly! Honestly, I’m the clumsiest person you’ll ever meet.’

  And that was you, Hannah. Sweet and kind, wholesome, teetering along the fine line between girl and woman.

  When you know, you know.

  I sat on the low wall opposite the bakery and watched you through the window as you worked. It was a beautiful afternoon, mid-September, still warm – an Indian summer – and you were mesmerising. When it finally came to closing, you untied your apron and hung it up, put on your jacket and waved at someone unseen out back. You pushed the door open. Without your apron I could see you wore white cut-off shorts and a shapeless checked shirt, one made for men, I think, and a denim jacket that was a size too big. I imagined taking you shopping for expensive, well-cut clothes in the boutiques in Chelsea. The thought of spoiling you excited me.