Another Love (26 page)

‘I want to see Celeste.’ She sobbed.

‘Not going to happen. Anything else?’ His tone was firm, resolute.

‘I don’t have any clothes or anything,’ she managed through her tears.

‘I’ll send a bag up when I can. I saw you stagger up to your mate’s, is that where you’re staying?’ He looked up the cul-de sac.

She nodded.

He gave a wry laugh. ‘Figures.’

And then he shut the door, leaving her standing on the driveway staring at the front door. She laid her hand on it, remembering entering their home that very first time.
‘Come on. Together!’
Her fingers flexed as she recalled the feel of her hand inside his and the way they’d both smiled as she’d placed the new key in the unfamiliar lock and turned. She thought about her little girl on the other side, probably in her pyjamas and ready for bed, teeth cleaned and fresh from her bath. Romilly wrapped her arms around her trunk and turned, ready to trundle up the road to Sara’s. The sooner she could get wasted, the better. Then, for tonight at least, she might be able to forget.

About to walk away, she paused and gazed again at the front door with the brass furniture that she had chosen and polished. She wondered how long it would be before she was welcome on the other side again, if ever.

That encounter had been two days ago and still no bag had been delivered. Romilly slopped around Sara’s house in her pyjamas and when they were in the wash she borrowed a pair from her friend. It mattered little to her; in fact, wearing pyjamas helped her feel like she was poorly, fluey, suffering, and at some level this helped absolve her of responsibility for her drinking.

It was late morning when, from the sofa, Romilly heard a knock on the door. It woke her up; she’d been snoozing there since the night before, too sloshed to make it up the stairs. Her head ached and her vision was fuzzy. She popped her glasses on. At the sound of David’s voice, she sat upright.

‘Can you give her this?’ His tone was no less cold than it had been the other night.

She jumped from the sofa and hurled herself into the hallway. ‘David! I need to speak to you. I… I just need a minute, just to speak to you!’

He let his eyes rove over her pyjama top, which gaped with misfastened buttons. Then he ground his teeth and turned to walk back down Sara’s driveway.

‘Don’t ignore her, you prick! She has a right to half, you know. Fucking half! I should know! Been there, done that!’ Sara laughed as she leant on the wall.

‘Sara!’ Romilly mouthed her disgust at the way her friend was speaking to her husband.

In a flash, David turned on his heel and raced back up the path. He stood with his face mere inches from Sara’s as he snarled his words, his shoulders back, one foot forward, his index finger pointing in her face.

‘You are a nasty piece of work. You know exactly what you’re about, you know what you’re doing and you know the damage you have caused. What had we done to deserve someone like you? What had Celeste? You are bitter, jealous and fucked up. It must have killed you to see what we had, how happy we were.’

‘I want us to be happy, David…’ Romilly seized on his words, talking with her hand outstretched as if reaching for him.

He turned his head briefly in her direction. ‘We were, Romilly. But that’s finished.’ He looked back at Sara, who was holding her stance without a flicker of remorse or fear at his words. ‘You have been instrumental in helping my wife fuck up her life. We have a daughter, a little girl…’ He stopped. ‘And now I am only thinking about her, doing what’s best for her and trying to keep her safe. Do not speak to me or my child again. Not one word. Do not look at us or I swear to God, I will be back and you have no idea what I am capable of. None at all.’ His voice shook as he strode back down the pathway.

‘David?’ Romilly called after him. He carried on walking, without looking back. Romilly sank to the floor as she realised that for the first time since she was nineteen she did not have the beautiful David Arthur Wells to lean on.

Sara slammed the front door. ‘I don’t like being spoken to like that in my own home!’ she snapped, arms folded. ‘Who does he think he is?’

‘He’s just upset. It’s… It’s not his fault…’ She instantly tried to justify the actions of her husband. ‘You shouldn’t have said that stuff about me getting half, I don’t want it to come to that and if it did, I wouldn’t want anything. I just want to go home.’

Sara stared at her and twisted her lower jaw. Her words, when delivered, were cool. ‘I think, Rom… I think it’s best if you don’t stay here any more. I’ve been a good friend to you and you didn’t defend me once, not once. Even now, you’re like, “It’s not his fault!”’ She imitated Romilly’s voice. ‘I’d like you to go. I mean, not immediately. You should get changed and have a coffee first.’ She flicked her blonde hair extensions over her shoulder and went in search of caffeine.

‘I… I don’t know where to go,’ Romilly whispered as she was gripped by a new, all-consuming fear.

*

After packing her small bag and slipping her feet into her trainers, she closed the front door of Sara’s house and skirted the shiny Mercedes in the driveway. Cautiously, she crept across to her own home and hovered at the end of the path, texting her husband, unsure if he would even read it. Then she hoisted her bag up onto her shoulder and walked up Stoke Hill towards the Downs, making sure to keep her head high and her step light, as if she was like any other woman out for a stroll and not foundering hopelessly, wondering where she might spend the night.

An hour later, clutching her bag to her chest, she tucked her hair behind her ears and stared anxiously at the café. Her face was glowing with the red-hot sweat of need; she’d had a vodka for breakfast and had stuffed the rest of the bottle into her handbag, ready to drink once this meeting was over. The tea room on the Downs was somewhere they had often stopped at for a cup of coffee or to get Celeste an ice cream mid walk, regardless of the weather. She had hoped that choosing a place that was familiar might help her nerves. It didn’t, not even a bit. She approached the apron where the little metal chairs and tables were dotted around outside and fought the desire to vomit, she was so nervous. David looked up and saw her. He opened his mouth as if to speak but clearly couldn’t think of the words and so instead he slowly pulled out the chair next to him, as if helping a relative who was elderly or infirm.

‘Thank you for meeting me,’ she whispered, trying to keep her eyes averted, staring at the concrete water tower across the grass and not letting him look directly at her, trying to hide. ‘I… I’m sorry about the way Sara spoke to you.’

‘You look terrible.’ His voice was low, ignoring the reference to earlier, but there was no anger in it now, just pity, which was even harder to deal with. ‘Can I get you something to eat?’ he asked, coaxingly, like he’d used to do with Celeste.

‘No. Thank you.’ The thought of food sent bile rushing up into her throat. She swallowed.

‘A cup of coffee then?’

‘Yes, please.’ She nodded. ‘Black.’ Even the idea of milk made her retch.

He returned to the table minutes later and placed the mug in front of her, along with three long sachets of sugar and a teaspoon. She looked up at him, wondering why he’d brought sugar when he knew she didn’t take it. It made her feel like a stranger and it erased a little of their history. Not a little, in fact; a lot. One of the first things he’d done for her was make a cup of tea, and in times of sorrow or celebration they would always flick on the kettle. She couldn’t guess the number of hot drinks he’d made her, but it had to be thousands.

‘Thought you might like some sugar. I know you don’t take it, but, you know, if you don’t… don’t want anything to eat…’

She smiled briefly, with relief and understanding. A small group of students, boys and girls in skinny jeans, trainers and hoodies, with messenger bags slung over their shoulders, jostled each other and roared their laughter as they ambled along the pavement towards the halls.

‘Their whole lives ahead of them…’ He watched them and narrowed his eyes.

‘How is Celeste?’ she whispered. She was still unable to meet his gaze; she was too distressed and embarrassed.

‘As you’d expect, really.’ His clipped tone gave little away.

‘I will try, David. I promise. I will try and… sort myself out.’

‘How will you?’

She opened her mouth to speak but realised she didn’t have the answer. ‘I…’

He tapped the tabletop. ‘The thing is, Rom, you’ve been to two of the finest facilities, both of which promised great results, using quite different methods, but the one thing that was common to them both was that they felt you weren’t ready to get better, that you didn’t or couldn’t see that you were ill. And that’s the stumbling block, right there.’ He shrugged. ‘As far as I can see, you could spend months, years in those places, but until you know here…’ He placed his hand on his head. ‘And here…’ He touched his heart. ‘That you need help, then it’s a waste of everyone’s time and money.’

She nodded.

‘And I can see you nodding, going through the motions, but I just don’t feel it. Until you accept that you need proper help, I’m shit-scared I’ll be coming home again to find my daughter a nervous wreck and my TV room covered in piss.’

She shook her head at the thought, wishing he would stop mentioning it.

He swivelled his head to stare at her, studying her features and letting his eyes travel over her hair. She felt her cheeks colour under his scrutiny and pushed her glasses up onto her nose.

Suddenly he reached into his bag beneath his chair and pulled out a bottle of vodka. He placed it on the table and twisted the label to face her. Her eyes flicked from his face to the bottle, thinking how good it would be to have that in her possession for that afternoon and night. It always gave her a small sense of calm to know that she had bottles waiting for her, and the lack of alcohol at her fingertips had the exact opposite effect, sending her into a state close to panic. It was a curious gift but one that she greatly appreciated, showing her he understood what she needed.

‘Okay, Rom.’ He turned to face her. ‘I’m going to give you a choice. You have me and Celeste sitting here in front of you.’ He pointed at his chest. ‘And you have this bottle of vodka.’ He touched his fingertips to the lid.

She looked from him to the bottle and back again.

‘You can only have one today, but not both. Us.’ Again he touched his chest. ‘Or this.’ He rested his hand on the neck of the bottle and she felt a flicker of panic that he might remove it. ‘Which will you choose?’

She stared at the man she loved and knew that she owed him the truth. A truthful response to this simple question, but a choice that had repercussions she could only begin to imagine. She felt her face flush with sweat and her head shake with the tremor of longing. She spread her palm on the table and swallowed, letting her fingers creep towards her husband, picturing the two of them wrapped in a white sheet in the afterglow of love, on their bed, in their home, while their daughter slept soundly down the corridor… And then, as if guided by something stronger than her, she reached out and gripped the bottle, sliding it into her lap, from where she placed it in her handbag and laid it snugly next to its twin.

Romilly averted her gaze to the water tower again and wrapped her arms around her form, trying to muster some warmth and stop the shaking. When she looked back, David had his head in his hands and he was crying.

When Mum disappeared, I was strangely relieved. I pestered Dad with questions, repeatedly asking if he knew when she would be back, and he was really patient with me. He must have thought it was because I couldn’t wait to see her again, but the truth was I was afraid of her by then and I was afraid of being left alone with her. The last time I’d seen her, that horrendous day with the cake, she’d called me a fucking nightmare and looked at me in that awful, hard way she did when she was sloshed, like she only half recognised me. Like she hated me.

Every night when Dad kissed me goodnight and switched my light off, I’d say, ‘If she comes back in the night, can you come in and wake me up?’ He’d just nod. He looked so sad and so tired. I was terrified that I’d be having breakfast one day and look up and there she would be, a bit scruffy perhaps, like on that morning when she came home and Dad told me she’d been in the hospital looking after Sara.

Then, one Saturday, Dad was making scrambled eggs while I was messing about on the kitchen floor tiles. I had my earphones in and I was twirling, trying to turn in a complete circle and land facing where I’d started from. I didn’t manage it, but I kept trying, thumping down on the floor and getting back up again. After I’d done my last twirl before sitting down for breakfast I asked him again if Mum would be coming back today. I didn’t want our nice morning to be ruined. But Dad had left the bread too long in the toaster and a thin swirl of black smoke curled up to the ceiling and set the smoke alarm off. It was a linked alarm system, so once one went off, they all did, all over the house. Suddenly there was horrible shrill beeping in every room.

Dad turned to me and lifted the spatula in his hand, using it like a baton to emphasise his point. He ignored the smoke, the burning toast, the eggs that had caught the bottom of the pan, the screeching alarm and the rhythmic thump of my landings, and he said, out of the blue, ‘She’s not coming home today and she won’t be home tomorrow. She might not be home for months, maybe years. But if she is coming home, I promise I will tell you.’ His hand shook and his eyes looked teary. ‘But please, please, Celeste, stop asking me.’

So I learnt not to ask and when I stopped asking, she faded a little. Not completely, but enough that it all became a lot easier to bear. I was still anxious, though, and I used to wake in the middle of the night with my heart thumping fit to jump out of my chest. One of those sleepless nights, I even wished that she would die, and that my Dad would come and sit me down, and gently tell me that she was never coming home, not ever again. I still feel really bad about that. All these years later, it’s still a memory that plays over and over in my mind.