by Bloom, Anna
And I can’t stop him.
It works its way free like all secrets finally do. I cry before the words are even free from his lips. Please don’t. Please don’t.
“I guess this time I won’t have to drag you bleeding and unconscious from a bath.”
I shake my head, my tears flying everywhere. “No.”
“Figured.” He steps closer and then drops the picture on the bed. “I need to let you go, Faith. Don’t contact me, don’t come for me, don’t try to help me.” His shoulders lift high and then fall and using the back of his hands he wipes at his tears. “Leave me to live my own life.”
“Dan.” I want to stop him, want to hold him back, tell him not to leave me, tell him to keep saving me. But I know I can’t.
As he walks for the door echoing footsteps from the past thud in my head. Back in a time when I was lost in darkness and my body had betrayed me one time too many.
I fall to the floor, a loud sob ripping from my throat.
I never want to get up. Never want to think, never want to remember. Now the whole world knows what happened to me. Eli’s name will be forever marred by my sordid past and my body will have betrayed us all one time too many.
There is nothing for me apart from dust and shadows and the screaming echoes of a time long ago when I should have spoken but never did.
“Faith?” The hands I know too well lift me. The hands I trust.
“Eli. I’m going to ruin everything.”
I can’t look at his face, I can’t face the understanding that I know I will see dawning in his eyes. “What did he mean?”
He knows though. I can hear it.
I lift my eyes to his. Somehow behind my veil of tears I know the blues will be hardening, fleeing from me.
“What did he mean?” Harder, firmer, demanding.
“Not all firsts are yours.” I crumple in his hold. The dark secret is finally out. “I was pregnant before.”
Eli rocks back on his heels. “What do you mean?”
“I was pregnant before.”
He rocks back on his heels like I’ve punched him. “What? Who?” He asks the question, but the realisation dawns on his face. “Faith? With Aiden?”
“It was disgusting. It was worse than being violated in the first place.” I sob, my gagging reflex taking over. Retching, I lean over. It’s all too much. Everything is too much.
“Seven weeks you’ve been carrying my baby and you haven’t told me. There I was trying to work out why you reacted the way you did, why you weren’t ecstatic and happy like me and now I know. It’s because you’d been there before, but it was because you’d been raped.”
The last word is a whisper, but it thumps into my heart, branding itself.
My shaking fingers wipe at my face. I need to see him clearer. “I thought if my body allowed him to embed itself in me then maybe they were right and I did want it after all.”
His hands drop from my shoulder and he stands and paces for the window. “I can’t believe this. That monster, he… he…” Eli’s fist splinters through the glass pane.
“Eli!”
Blood trickles from his knuckles onto the cream carpet. “Seven weeks, Faith. Seven weeks and you could have told me. Told me why you were scared. You made me think it was because we hadn’t been together long enough. I was going out of my mind wondering why you didn’t love me as much as I love you.”
“I do love you, Eli. I do, more than I ever thought possible. And I love our baby; it’s going to save me, I know it.” I can’t stop the tears, they are pouring like relentless rain.
He watches the blood, the colour draining from his face. “No.” His eyes when he turns cut me in half. “No one can save you. Not me, not Dan. You are the only one.”
“Don’t give up on me please.” I step closer but he holds his hands up to stop me. “Please, Eli. I’m fighting so hard.”
“You aren’t and I’m not helping.” His hands palm through his hair, pulling at the short lengths.
“The papers, they’ve printed about me.”
“So? Do you care?”
“Of course I fucking care. I don’t want people knowing your wife is some fucked-up mess.”
“So, show them you aren’t. Show me.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Even when you aren’t running you never stop.” Bending down he picks up the photograph Dan dropped. “Since we met, I’ve seen you tangled in your secrets. Faith, I love you, but I can’t live with secrets.”
Holy shit. He’s going to say it.
“But I don’t keep them because I want to hurt you.”
He steps closer and I shudder a breath. “I know, but they hurt you and I can’t stand by and watch that happen. I love you and I love our baby, so damn much. I want everything, with you, for you.” Tears slip down his face. Whimpering, I wipe at them with my hands. His skin burns beneath my touch and I sear it into my skin in case I never get to feel it again. “But my whole life has been spent surrounded by secrets. My own brother lived his whole life a lie. A lie he had to carry all by himself.” He chokes on his words. “I can’t do that.”
"Please don’t leave me.”
Grabbing my hand, he lifts it to his mouth, his lips pressing into the skin of my palm. “I’ll be here for you and the baby, and I’ll be waiting for you to find a way to be with me with an open heart.”
“Eli. I’ll tell you everything. Sit down now and I will tell you every second of what happened.”
“No, Faith! I don’t want you to tell me because I’ve forced it. Or I’ve overheard something I shouldn’t. I want you to tell me because there is no other way for it to be.”
“Eli.”
Leaning closer, his lips press gently into my forehead. He can’t be leaving me. He can’t.
He is. I know it. My heart, which is hanging so heavy in my chest I don’t know how to stand, is telling me so.
“Be happy.”
“I am, with you.”
He shakes his head. “Be happy because you are, because your heart is free.”
“You are talking shit. How can I be happy if I’m in love with you and you’ve walked away and broken my heart?”
He steps away and it actually hurts me. “Eli, please.”
“I’ll go back to the Mews. You stay here, you’ve got Miss Beesley.”
“I am not staying in this house without you.”
“Where else are you going to go?”
“I’ll go—”
“You’ll run?”
“Shut up. Stop putting words in my mouth.” I pull at the ring he put on my finger, the empty promise tied with gold and diamonds. “Here.”
“I don’t want your ring, Faith.” His words crackle and strain on their way out. “I just want you. You are the only thing I’ve ever wanted. But I will never be enough for you, not until you make a stand.”
With one last agonised glance he walks through the door. I want to chase after him. I want to give him everything he wants and needs but I can’t. I’m rooted to the spot.
Can I give him everything he wants and needs?
My legs crumple beneath me and I fall onto the carpet, my fingers dragging through the plush pile. He’s gone. He’s gone and I’m frozen, stuck in time, unable to look towards the past so I can chase after him.
Dan has gone.
Eli has gone.
Now it’s just me. I lie on the floor; my sobs so hard my shoulders ache. Now it’s just me and… I place my hands on my tummy.
Now it’s just us.
Twenty-Five
I don’t leave the room. Shadows chase across the ceiling until they lengthen and darken into a night sky. My phone rings until I guess the battery is out when the incessant ringing and vibrating ceases. Then only silence and my dark thoughts remain.
“I’m sorry.” I haven’t taken my hand off the flat of my tummy. Although it isn’t that flat anymore. No one else can see but I can sense the curve under the cup of my palm. “I don�
��t think I know how to fight for you.”
I let go of the curve and roll onto my side, closing my eyes to the now and forcing the memory box I keep firmly shut to finally open.
Hazy and like they are dipped in sepia I try to pull them free from the box.
Sitting on a chair at the doctors, the plastic bit into the back of my legs.
“Well you have choices.”
“But I don’t want to be pregnant. I don’t understand.”
My fingers shook so hard I ended up squeezing them under my thighs.
“You haven’t been practising safe sex. Now we can help you with what comes next, but you need to be aware of the consequences.
The words burned on my tongue. I haven’t been practising sex. I’ve been practising hell and no one can help me. No one can teach me about consequences because none of this is real.
Inside me is the mark of the devil, the seed of evil and I let it in. I laid there, silent and still and I let it in there.
I cry again until my throat is sore and my back aches at being on the floor. With shaking legs and arms, I crawl for the bed and I throw myself down on the mattress. I want to sleep, and I never want to wake up again.
I don’t want to wake up in a world where Eli has walked away from me not once but twice.
I shut my eyes and wait for never to arrive.
When the bed dips, I think he’s home. He’s realised he is being irrational and has come back. But it's Miss Beesley.
“I don’t want to see anyone.” I try to turn away, but she holds my arm, surprisingly firmly.
“I’ve bought you tea.”
I don’t want tea.
“I want a cigarette.”
She keeps her face straight. “Tell that to the small person you have in your tummy.”
“Bollocks.” If she’s surprised at my outburst, she doesn’t let it show.
“You’ve had callers.”
“Miss Beesley, this is not the nineteenth century; no one has left a calling card.”
“Rachel.”
“Sorry?” She’s making me talk and I hate her for it.
“I’m Rachel. You never asked before, but I much prefer being Rachel to being Miss Beesley.”
A small tear trickles down my face. Haven’t I run out of tears yet? I must have used a lifetime supply today.
“Rachel, I won’t be staying. I can’t stay here without him and I don’t think he’s coming back.”
She sighs and brushes at my hair. “No.”
“You heard?”
“I wouldn’t have done if your friend hadn’t banged the door so loud on his way out. I came through to check what was happening and then I heard.”
“You know about the papers today though?”
“Yes.” Again, her expression doesn’t give anything away. “Who do you want to be, Faith?”
“Pardon?”
“Who do you want to be? Since you’ve been here, I haven’t seen you do one thing for yourself. You’ve been to meetings about a TV show, but you don’t talk about it with any excitement at all. You’ve been dragging yourself to lectures but with no enthusiasm. These last weeks, you’ve been attending the functions for the Faircloughs, but you haven’t enjoyed them, haven't engaged in them.”
I scowl. “You can’t blame me. They were as boring as fuck.” I sigh. “At least I won’t have to worry about them anymore now I’m no longer going to be a Fairclough.”
“Really? That’s all you have to say?” Bloody hell, why won’t she just go away and let me wallow? I want to wallow. Me and the bump together, wallowing in our doom.
“No. What are you, a housekeeper or a counsellor?”
"Have you ever had you counselling, Faith?”
“No, I bloody haven’t. And I’m not going to start now.” I fling back the duvet. “I’m not going to sit here listening to this shit. You don’t even know what you are talking about.”
Without a word, she takes a folded piece of newspaper out of the pocket of her cardigan. Smoothing it out, she spreads it for me to see.
Aristocracy rocked by abuse scandal.
“That’s ridiculous. I’m not even a member of their bloody family, or the aristocracy for that matter.”
“And does,” she leans closer, “Terry Dean from The Sun care about that?”
“Listen, Miss Beesley, Rachel. I know you are trying to help but you can’t. No one can.”
Her face falls and she pats my hand and gets up. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Welcome to my life.”
She walks out and leaves me to my pity parade. It’s only when she’s shut the door with a soft click that I notice the Manilla file on the duvet. It’s the file Sienna turned up with yesterday.
What a fucking cheek. I can’t believe he had the gall to try to find my mother. I haven’t gone strutting about trying to fix him by getting him back in contact with his father. It’s just another example of why I will always be the broken little doll he feels the need to fix.
Fucking bastard.
I kick at the file to fling it off the bed.
I can’t even do that right. It opens and half the paperwork slides off. I sob as I kick harder. How dare he? How fucking dare he?
His familiar writing stares back at me from a single scrap of A5.
Just in case you want it.
E.
Below his words is an address. Nothing else. He must have put it in there before he left.
A burning ache centres itself in my chest and I fling the rest of the covers off and jump out of the bed. Without much thought, I leave the bedroom that used to be ours and pace up to the attic. Upstairs, I slam the door shut and glare with burning hatred at everything I see. Swiping out with my fists I knock the papers and drawing off the desk. I push at packs of paint and shelves of equipment until they land at my feet, shattering and rolling across the floorboards. Lastly, I turn for the painting on the easel, the picture of Charlotte I painted the other week. I don’t want the memory of that evening here; that single slice of perfection Eli and I managed before once again destruction and despair chased me down. It’s not there. The easel is empty.
Folding myself to the floor I let my tears roll, not even bothering to wipe them. They slip and slide, but they don’t erase my anguish the way I want them to.
When I’m done and my tears are sticky on my cheeks, I look at the mess I’ve made. It’s impressive. What would Miss Beesley say? I want to apologise to her. She’s a good woman. She doesn’t deserve the way I spoke to her. She cares. But I hate being cared for. I hate the pity and the looks that comes with caring. Now everyone knows.
No, those looks will be with me wherever I go. I could never see Eli again and those looks would still follow me.
I pick up a pack of moulding clay from where it’s rolled next to me and pick at the cellophane. It feels warm beneath my touch. Pliable, like it wants me to turn it into something.
“I can’t.” I whisper at the inanimate lump in my palms. “How can I when everyone is watching, waiting, looking to see what I will do next, what mess I will create. What glass I will smash…
My fingers don’t listen. They keep kneading and moulding, pushing and prodding. Then I get another pack and another and I sit in the dark of the attic and let my hands lead my heart.
Dawn is peeking along the horizon at Chesham Place when I walk back down the stairs. In my hands I hold the sculpted head of a young girl, her eyes covered with her fingers.
“Holy fuck!” I almost drop the damn thing when I walk into the kitchen and find Miss Beesley already sat at the table.
“And a good morning to you, too.”
“You literally just took years off my life. What are you doing here so early?”
“I didn’t go home.” She raises a defiant glare in my direction.
"Why on earth not?”
For a moment she looks at me like I’m utterly stupid. “I’m beginning to realise a few things with you, young missy
.” She sighs and pours a cup of tea from a pot on the table and pushes it towards me. “I didn’t go home because I care. About you, about Eli, but mostly about you.”
Her admission takes the wind out of my already deflated sails. I sit on the chair opposite her and pull the cup of tea across the table. “I’m sorry.”
We sit in silence for a while. The tea warms me up and my stomach grumbles.
“What can I make you?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to eat. Instead, I want to be hungry and smoke cigarettes, but I can’t. I need to look after the person inside of me, too.
“I’d like some toast. Can you show me how to make it on the Aga?”
“I can."
“Look, I made this.”
Miss Beesley stares at the girl in clay. “Who is it?”
“I think it’s me?”
She looks between me and the clay with that sharp and shrewd gaze of hers. “And what’s going to make you see, Faith?”
I shrug, but my heart is already whispering, telling me what I need. “We’ve got to bake that, and I don’t have a kiln yet. Reckon the Aga will do it?”
“My baby cooks most things.”
“Your baby?”
“Clearly I haven’t made you enough roast potatoes yet.” She chuckles and the sound rumbles loudly in my ears.
“Roast potatoes. Ooh, I could fancy some.”
Mm. Now she’s mentioned it, I really could.
“Roast potatoes for breakfast it is.”
“I’m going for a shower.”
She nods. “I think that’s a very good idea. Then what are you doing?”
I hesitate. I’m here. I can’t run. I can never run again. If I do, I’ll never get the things I want. “I’m going to work.”
I wait for Damien to say something. “Is it hideous?” I prompt eventually. He’s tilting the pictures I took of my blinded girl from one side to the other.
“Nope.”
“Anything to say?” Shit, I hate this.
“I’ll need to talk to Frances.” He sighs, which I take as the sign of impending doom. Whitlocks are about to sack me.
