The Waiting List (Strong Women Book 5)

by Sarah Till

  I felt very tipsy and laughed a little louder than usual as Tim's arm left my shoulder and he stepped out to hail a taxi. I looked around me, content that the evening had turned out well. The end part at least. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a familiar figure standing in the dark of a doorway, the embers of a cigarette lighting up his face. Johnny was standing with two other men but he was staring at me. My earlier feelings of guilt subsided and the alcohol took over. I marched up to him, swaying slightly as my stagger ground to a halt.

  “So. Johnny. Fancy seeing you here.”

  He threw the cigarette in the road.

  “Like I said, Clem, I come here a lot.”

  “So, you said. I saw you watching me.”

  Johnny smiled.

  “Don't flatter yourself. I wasn't watching you at all. I was looking for someone.”

  “Oh, yes? Looking for someone? OK Johnny. But let me tell you...” I pointed roughly in his direction, my vision slightly doubled by drunkenness, “I'm on to you. Yes. On. To. You. But you see, I'm going home with Tim. We're on a date.”

  Tim approached and grabbed my arm.

  “Come on Clem, I've got a taxi back home.”

  “Yours or mine?”

  Tim laughed and Johnny looked a little uncomfortable.

  “Mine. You up for it?”

  I looked at Tim and felt a tingle. Yes, I was definitely up for it. I realised that I had no idea where he lived and that I hardly knew him, but, after looking at Johnny's concerned stare, I agreed. My inebriated reasoning told me that somehow going home with Tim would teach Johnny his lesson for stalking me.

  “Yeah! Yeah! Let's go.”

  Tim led me away and I stared back at Johnny who lit another cigarette and shook his head.

  Chapter Seven

  The taxi took us miles out of town, to a suburb I recognised but had never ventured into. Gradually, the streetlights dwindled and we turned off a long, straight main road onto a dimly lit lane. The driver turned left and we stopped in a cul-de-sac. For most of the drive, I'd rested my head on Tim's shoulder as he gently stroked my hair. I peered out into the darkness and could make out dim lights behind curtains in one of the houses. Tim paid the taxi driver and we hopped out.

  He held my hand as we walked slowly up the path to his house. I looked back for any sign of where I was, perhaps a street name. More sober now, I was acutely aware that I'd gone home with a stranger. I looked at the door, noting the number. Twenty-seven. I'd completely lost my bearings and felt slightly afraid. Even so, I followed Tim into the house and tried to relax. In the hallway, he pulled me close to him.

  “Well, we're home.”

  His breath smelled of stale beer and his hair smelled of cigarette smoke. I turned away as he went to kiss me.

  “To be honest, Tim, I don't know why I'm here. Maybe this was a bad idea. I think I'll get a taxi home.”

  My hand went to my bag for my phone, but he grabbed it.

  “Come in here. Mum's here and she wants to meet you.”

  I followed him through a door into the lounge. A woman sat in an easy chair. Tim sat on the sofa and the woman leaned forward. I held out my hand.

  “Hello. I've just popped in to say hello. I'll be going in a minute.”

  She looked at me and smiled. Tim was also looking at me. This was getting creepy. Suddenly Tim jumped up and turned to his mother.

  “Mum, why don't you get some drinks for us?” He turned back to me. “You don't want to be outside at this time of night. Mum'll get you something to slip into.”

  Mrs Rosklyde rose and shuffled into the kitchen. I noticed she had the same brown curly hair as Tim. I looked around the room, and, although everything seemed dated, it looked quite normal. I suddenly wondered if my reticence was down to the amount of alcohol I had drunk. Why should I feel like this? Hadn't I willingly gone home with Tim? He was cuddling up to me now and I relaxed a little and responded. We sat in silence, our arms around each other, Tim's chin resting on my shoulder. He would periodically rub my back and I started to think that, after all, coming back here was a good idea. I considered that maybe it was his mother who made me feel uneasy.

  When she returned, she was carrying a tray of hot chocolate. After going into the hallway, she padded up and down stairs, then she came back in with a pair of white fluffy slippers, a short white nightdress and a brown satin dressing gown. Handing them to me, she grinned widely. I took them without a word and we drank our hot chocolate in silence, even though Tim and his mother looked at each other and nodded appreciatively, licking their lips from time to time. Tim got up and stretched.

  “Alright, Mum, we'll go up now.”

  I stood awkwardly and moved backwards towards the door. Once in the hallway, I wondered if I should make a run for the front door but checked myself for unnecessary drama and followed Tim upstairs. There were four doors on the landing and he led me to the second on the left, the bedroom at the front of the house. Once inside, he held me and kissed me until we fell onto the bed in passion. I struggled to take my jacket off and laughed as he struggled to get his trousers off with his shoes still on. We were soon rolling on the bed in just our underwear and I found myself enjoying the roller-coaster ride of knowing Tim. Soon the situation became more serious and I knew that it was nearly time for us to make love. Tim released me onto my back on the soft mattress and slipped down the straps of my bra until my breasts were almost exposed. I could feel my nipples harden as he kissed my neck, then my chest, then licked between my breasts. I breathed heavily as he raised his head and looked deep into my eyes.

  “Beautiful, beautiful...”

  His moans became throatier as he pressed himself down on top of me and kissed my ear gently.

  “Beautiful, beautiful Caroline.”

  I froze. Had he really just called me by another woman's name? Was I imagining it? I pushed him away.

  “Tim, I'm not Caroline. I'm Clementine.”

  He rolled onto his back and lay completely still. No more words were spoken and I lay quietly in the king-sized bed, too upset to move. Ten minutes later, he breathed the baby-snores that large amounts of alcohol induced. It was dark in the room and I felt dizzy, the effects of the copious cocktails still taking their toll. I gently eased myself out of bed and scrabbled around as quietly as possible for my handbag and clothes. I grabbed my dress and coat and shoes, along with my bag and quietly opened the door. I needed the loo and resolved not to flush. Walking along the landing, I glanced downstairs and could still see the flicker of the television in the lounge. Tim's mum was obviously still down there and I would have to sneak past her to get out. Looking at the three doors in front of me, I chose the one at the end of the corridor. I turned the handle slowly and silently and fumbled along the wall for the light switch. Flicking it on, I froze with shock.

  The room contained a pine dressing table with a mirror. The walls were lined with posters and t-shirts of concerts and remnants of tickets and programmes. The mirror was obscured by photographs of Tim and a blonde-haired girl. I moved closer and could see that they were smiling, laughing, hugging, playful; in love. Above the mirror was a wreath of fairy lights wrapped around a curtain pole attached to the wall. The lights illuminated a collage of cut out silhouettes of Tim and the girl that spelled out the word 'Caroline'. I moved a little closer to the dressing table, fascinated. There were hairbrushes and some makeup, all carefully laid out in lines. I picked up a small plastic bag and dropped it quickly when I realised it contained a lock of hair. I picked the bag up again between my finger and thumb and stared at the blonde strands, curled around and around and secured with a red elastic band, the ones that usually held letters together as the post dropped through the letterbox. It struck me as careless, that something so precious should be wrapped in something so casually. A necklace with half a heart was looped over a handle of a cup that depicted Paris. A picture of Tim and Caroline with the Eiffel Tower as a background leaned against the cup. I picked it up and look
ed at it closely. Tim's grin was not the only aspect of the picture which seemed familiar. I studied Caroline's face, her smile, her eyes. It was like looking in the mirror. Caroline was the image of me. Or, to Tim, obviously I was the image of Caroline.

  In a strange way I felt relieved as this development explained his bizarre behaviour. I cringed when I thought about almost wearing Caroline's nightie and slippers. And sleeping in her bed with her crazy lover. And here I was, still in freaky boy's house, sitting in my underwear in his shrine to his ex-girlfriend. I sighed and thought about my list. Another aborted attempt to find the perfect man. Each time the man I met seemed so promising at first, but turn out to be increasingly complex and weird. I looked at the pictures again. Tim and Caroline must have been happy once. It appeared that they had travelled all over the world, from the background locations in the photographs. Most of the pictures showed them as a couple, at a distance. And while it was easy to see how close they were, arms entwined and bright smiles, it was difficult to make out what Caroline really looked like. Caroline on a motorbike. Caroline on a camel. Caroline on a horse. Tim and Caroline on a jet-ski. Tim and Caroline dressed up for a ball. She appeared to look like me from a distance, but I couldn't be sure. I opened a drawer in the dressing table and sifted through the pictures until I found a close-up of Caroline on her own. She held a coffee cup and was looking upwards, a natural expression as if she had been snapped by surprise. The look was familiar and suddenly, out of nowhere, another name floated into my consciousness: Charlotte.

  I looked more closely at the photograph. The girl who Tim knew as Caroline certainly looked a lot like me. And like Charlotte. Obviously older, but very similar. I considered the age-enhanced digitals of Charlotte that Mum had done and mused over the possibility that they were slightly wrong. What if Charlotte had never plucked her eyebrows and left them natural, like Caroline in the picture? What if she had never inherited the Clooney gait and curves and had remained slim like Mum? And like Caroline. What if Charlotte had kept her hair long, not short like she wore it at sixteen? What if she had never moved out of the area, and had lived alongside us for all this time? What if she was Caroline?

  I stuffed some of the photographs into the bottom of my handbag, crumpling the list. A handwritten letter lay on the dressing table. It was dated today. I took it and sat on a nearby footstool, curling my feet underneath me.

  Dearest Caroline

  I'm so sorry we argued the other day. I just wanted to apologise and to tell you that I miss you and our life together. My mind keeps going back to that high-octane nightclub, to the time we spent together on that first night, to how beautiful you looked. I just can't get you out of my head, even the bad times. I know you hate me talking about Amy's father and I know you hate us arguing, but in the whole scheme of things it doesn't matter. I keep going over it in my mind, how you could go off with someone else. I know you told me there was no one else, but I heard some people in the snooker club talking about it. I know you deny it but, Caroline, how do you explain all the nights when I call you and you don't answer? My heart was breaking. But not now. I know we can never go back and I know that we have no future. I expect in time I will forget about you, but for now you are forever in my thoughts.

  Love to you, beautiful Caroline.

  Tim

  It brought a tear to my eyes and I sniffed loudly then listened for any movement. At least he had acknowledged that there was no future for them. That at least was a positive for me. I placed the letter back on the dressing table and noticed that there was a huge pile of handwritten letters, all of similar length, piled on the floor. I stared at some more photographs of her, drinking in the detail and comparing it with my distant memories of my sister. The more I looked at the photographs, the more I saw her staring back at me.

  I caught sight of an old-style television with a pile of videos and DVDs on top of it. Down beside it was another pile, all labelled with the names and places of what I presumed were holidays. Holidays that Tim and Caroline had taken together. I took out a random DVD and pushed it into the player. I switched the screen on and the volume screeched out. Quickly turning the knob to silence the film, I listened carefully for any footsteps from outside. Tim would probably still be in his alcohol-induced coma and Mrs Rosklyde would probably be asleep, too. My attention turned back to the screen just in time to see Tim balancing on a log. The camera, presumably held by Caroline, wobbled a little in time with his wobbling on the log. He pushed out his tongue at her, just as he had done at me when I first met him. I sat cross-legged on the floral carpet, mesmerised by the image of him, so gorgeous, so full of fun, so happy. Was there a way he could be mine? Could I make him forget about her? I looked at the pile of memories in front of me and wondered how long it would take to manually delete them from the tapes. Or the tapes could just be thrown out with the rubbish. But then they wouldn’t be erased. Just put somewhere else, maybe forever or maybe would be sent back at some later date by some well-meaning binman who thought they had been thrown out by mistake. I couldn’t just wish Tim’s memories away any more than I could take his hurt away. But I could have a damn good try.

  He was running towards the screen now, towards me, with his arms outstretched. He kissed the camera lens and the picture went fuzzy for a moment. When it returned, it was Caroline who was smiling at the camera. So familiar. Yet the lines on her face were different, and her hair a different colour. The shape of her was unfamiliar, her height making me question if it was Charlotte at all. The wind blew her hair across her face and she turned and ran up the beach, with Tim behind the wobbly camera now. I suddenly felt like an intruder, and shivered as I realised I was watching someone else's world. She ran into the distance and he ran after her. I could just about hear her squeals and his gruff laughter on the almost mute TV. She splashed into the water and he ran right up to her. Yes, yes, it was her. Then no. No, it wasn't. I just couldn't make my mind up. All sorts of questions came up in my whizzing mind: if it was Charlotte, why was she calling herself Caroline? If it was Charlotte, how could she have been so happy, so carefree, when we were all mourning her?

  I clicked off the TV set and went back to the dressing table. I knew that none of this was normal but somehow felt sorry for Tim. He must have really loved Caroline to do all this. He must really miss her. It explained his bizarre behaviour in the club and him calling me by her name. It was all so clear. Tim loves Caroline. Yet the letter said he didn't want her anymoresomewhere in the depths of my heart, a small voice whispered that he could be mine.

  Chapter Eight

  I calculated that it must be at least four by now and debated if I should go home or stay. I thought about the possibility that Tim had been dating my missing sister and that he would know where she was. Also, I was a little scared of Mrs Rosklyde. I switched off the lights in the room and opened the door. Looking down into the hallway, I could see the TV screen lights still flickering through the wide-open lounge doors. I found the toilet and went, all the time more convinced that Caroline was my sister.

  If I left now I would never find out; I would probably never see Tim again after tonight if I made a secret exit now. Somewhere deep inside of me, I wondered if we could still make a go of it. Maybe I could help him get over Caroline. Maybe I was the woman to heal his deep wounds. I checked myself, reminding myself of the possibility that Caroline could be my sister. Returning to the bedroom, Tim still lay snoring in the king-sized bed. I got in beside him and lay there.

  I'd done this so often. Lying in bed with men I hardly knew. In the darkness of the bedroom I could just make out Tim's shape. He could have been any of the random men I'd convinced myself that I was falling in love with, and vice-versa. Of course, now, in the middle of the situation, it was easy to recognise that I appeared desperate, perhaps a little neurotic. Yet at another time when I was caught up in the flirting and waiting for phone calls and ticking off the items on my list, it seemed perfectly reasonable. It was almost as if I managed to erase
all the hours of darkness I'd spent in a stranger's bed, the quilt pulled up over my chin and tucked in round my sides.

  I often felt guilty, sometimes even a little dirty, in the morning light as I went home in a taxi, a phone number securely tucked inside my purse and the promise of a call. Sometimes, I even wondered why I did it. Why had I slept with them? Was I really desperate? I knew that no one had forced me and that I liked sex. Although I'd heard about women who particularly like sex with strangers – I wasn't one of those! I giggled a little now and Tim rolled over. I just liked sex. I'd always liked it and had never been able to see why it was dirty.

  Certain teenage occupations hadn't helped. I'd been an avid listener to music and although I didn't have any real favourites, I did fancy a multitude of stars. Most of the songs I liked focussed on love and I barely heard the music. I was entirely concentrated on the words of love and loss. On the happiness of the old Beatles and Motown records Dad donated to my collection and the rock and roll heartbreak of the changing styles of current music. I could feel the pain in my soul of 'She's Leaving Home' and projected it forward to my own separation from my parents and how that would feel. How could I have known it would be Charlotte who left? Or was taken? My preference for songs about breaking up instilled a fear in me that I would experience the same pain. In my early teens, I sought only true love songs where there were no melancholy aspects to upset me. I didn't understand back then that the whole point of the lyrics was to play on drama, to create conflict and, in turn, create feeling. It was only later, when I'd become conditioned by love and loss, that I would realise that it wasn't something everyone necessarily experienced. By then it was too late. Covering my conscience and better judgement were flashbacks of what I should and could have, if only I were beautiful and sexy enough.