Before I Wake (18 page)

She yanks her friend away and through the crowd without so much as a backward glance. I’m not offended by her sudden disappearance. I’m actually inordinately grateful that she helped me get into the club at all. I look back at the stairs. I’ll get into that VIP area if it’s the last thing I do.

Thursday, May 21, 1992

I can’t believe I haven’t written in my diary for nearly a year. Initially I hid it in my sewing machine table because I didn’t want James to find it, and then I guess I just forgot about it until now. So yes, nearly a year since I last wrote an entry, and the same amount of time since I moved into James’s house. I’d like to say that my life is wonderful, that I’m thinner, happier, and more loved than I’ve ever been, but the truth couldn’t be more different.

I don’t know how I ended up here. I feel trapped, unhappy, and more lonely that I’ve ever felt in my life. I feel like my life is on a loop—get up, take a shower, put on jeans and T-shirt (in a size 16—I’ve put on a stone and a half since I moved in), have breakfast with James and his mother (she started showing her face three days after I moved in, sulk finally over), and then complete the list of chores she gives me. If I’m lucky that includes a trip to the supermarket so I can be around real people, but more often than not, it involves cleaning, helping her attend to her personal needs (her caregiver, if there ever was one, never materialized from her holiday), and sitting quietly in the living room to “keep her company” while she watches daytime soap after daytime soap. I’ve taken to watching them too, mostly to try and block out the creepy batik wall hanging that stares at me with its big empty eyes from across the room. It sounds ridiculous, but I get really bad vibes from it. It’s always watching me, wherever I move.

Unlike the first few months of me living here, James doesn’t rush through the front door at the end of the day and wrap his arms around me. He doesn’t call me his “angel” or his “kitten.” He barely even acknowledges me. As for sex, I can barely remember the last time we made love. Neither of us sleep naked anymore, and when James comes in from the bathroom, he’ll say “night” and turn his back to me. Five minutes later, he’ll be asleep.

I started to wonder if it was me. I can’t stop comfort eating (chocolate mostly, on the walk back from the supermarket—I don’t get the bus anymore, because it makes me feel claustrophobic) and I thought maybe he didn’t fancy me anymore. I tried wearing a dress instead of my normal uniform of jeans and T-shirt one day, but when James came home and saw me, he shook his head and said I might want to consider getting a bigger size if I didn’t want every roll and ripple on show. I ran to the bedroom and cried.

James still makes an effort with his appearance. Every Sunday before rehearsals and once or twice during the week, he’ll spend over an hour in the bathroom then emerge in a cloud of deodorant and aftershave with a towel wrapped around his waist, then he’ll spend another ten minutes ironing a shirt, twenty minutes doing his hair, and then, when he’s checked with me that he looks good, he’ll leave. I’m pretty sure he’s having an affair—possibly with Maggie—but if I dare say anything, he turns it on me and accuses me of flirting with the male customers at work (I had to get a job at Tesco six months ago when Jess let me go from the bar job). I wanted to teach English as a foreign language again, but James said he didn’t want me traveling up to North London on my own. Besides, his mother needed me, he said, and I could get back quickly in an emergency if I worked close to home. What he said made sense, but I fought him anyway. I didn’t want to work at Tesco. I had a degree. I was a trained TEFL teacher and dressmaker, not a cashier. James didn’t listen. Instead he twisted my words and made out that I was a snob, too spoiled to rough it with the normal people for a couple of months while I got back on my feet.

I took umbrage at that, but he took my hands in his and said it was okay to have ambition, but my sewing business wasn’t going to take off immediately and I just had to have patience. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so incredulous. I hadn’t touched my sewing machine in months—his mother’s demands had seen to that.

I miss my mum so much my heart aches. I haven’t visited her in forever, but there hasn’t been the time, money, or opportunity. I called her a couple of times, a few months ago, but she got upset and confused and that made me feel terrible, like I was the cause of her distress. I haven’t rung since and I’m plagued by guilt, terrified she’ll think I’ve abandoned her.

I’ve nearly called Hels too, dozens of times, but I always put the phone down before the dial tone starts. I can’t bear to hear her say “I told you so” and remind me of all the time and money she and Rupert spent helping me get over James, only for me to go back to him again. And besides, what have I really got to complain about? I’m not starving, I’m not being beaten, and I’m not being forced to sleep in the garden shed. I’ve got a job, food to eat, a roof over my head, and a warm body sharing my bed. Sometimes James and I go out together—more often than not, it’ll be a trip to the theater, cinema, or a restaurant with his mother (she hates being left alone at home)—and when he’s in a good mood, I fall in love with him all over again. He’ll wink at me at the table, put a hand on my leg, and whisper in my ear that he wants to drag me into the toilets and fuck me. He never does, of course, but it’s moments like that—and him occasionally reaching for me in the night and wrapping his arm around me—that keep me here, that make me think that he does still love me, deep down. We’ve just gotten into a bit of a domestic rut and need to shake things up again so he sees me the same way he did when we didn’t live together. I got myself into this situation, and I need to get myself out.

I haven’t told James this, but I’ve started to stash some of my Tesco wages away so I can get myself a flat again. It’s not much after I’ve given him £200 for rent and the same for food each month (he said he’d only agreed for me to live here rent free until I started earning again), but the small pile of notes in the bottom of my rucksack is starting to grow. I’ve probably got a couple of hundred pounds now, nowhere near enough to put down a deposit and a month’s rent, but I’m getting there slowly. Another six months maybe? That’s what’s getting me through this, knowing there’s a light at the other end of the tunnel. When I get my own place, I’ll be able to work full time at Tesco because I won’t be looking after James’s mum, and I can start eating healthier again and lose some weight. I might even make friends with some of the girls at work. A couple of them have smiled at me, but I’m so scared they’ll think I’m a snob when they hear my voice, I rarely speak (James says I’m so well spoken people find me snobby). I used to be so chatty too. I think back to my first day with the Abberley Players and the way I’d have a banter with everyone. I miss the woman I used to be. And I can’t help thinking that maybe James does too.

“My seven-year-old daughter’s in a coma,” I say, hoping the same line that worked on Steve Torrance’s assistant will work on the Grey’s bouncer. “And Alex Henri’s her favorite player. I just want a recording of him saying ‘Get well soon, Charlotte,’ and I’ll be off. Honestly, I’ll be in and out of the VIP area in no time.”

The security guard crosses his arms but doesn’t look at me. He’s still scanning the crowd at the bar.

“Please, she’s very ill.”

“Look, love.” He gives me eye contact at last. “Your daughter could be drawing her last breath, but I’m still not going to let you up the stairs. If I let you go, I’ll have to let everyone go up there.”

“But they haven’t got sick children. Please, I spoke to his agent’s assistant earlier today and she said it was fine for me to approach him.”

“What was her name?”

“She didn’t say.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Funny that.”

I look at his colleague imploringly. He’s wearing a wedding ring and he’s got a “Connor” tattoo on his neck. “You look like a family man. Have you got kids?”

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even acknowledge the fact that I’ve just rested my hand, very lightly, on his forearm. “You’d do anything to protect your children, wouldn’t you? Do anything to make them happy? To keep them healthy? I want the same for my daughter. I want her to wake up and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. You can understand that, can’t you?”

His eyes flick toward me. They’re dark and hooded, almost hidden in his big round flashy face. “You’d do
anything
?”

“Of course.”

He looks me up and down and grins. A gold incisor glints at me. “Would you suck my cock?”

I make a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.

“I…” I don’t know what to say. I’ve got no idea if he’s serious or not. “I…”

“How much are you paying her to suck your cock? Or is she paying you?”

A tall blond man in a white shirt, dark jeans, and an expensive-looking black jacket is standing behind me. He looks me up and down then catches the married security guard’s eye and laughs.

“What is it, grope a granny night? Jesus, Terry, your standards have really slipped, haven’t they?”

I expect the security guard to punch him on the nose, or at least order him out of the club. Instead he laughs good-naturedly and unclips the velvet rope.

“I take what I can get, Rob, ideally without paying for it.”

“Excuse me.” I sidestep so I’m standing between the rope and Rob and pull myself up to my full five-foot-six. “I am a person, you know. I have got ears.”

“Well fuck me, she’s got ears!” He glances back at the group of people gathered behind him and laughs uproariously. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you, darlin’? What happened? Take a wrong turn on your way to bingo?”

“Are you always this rude or just to women who are too old to be impressed by a pretty face and a well-cut suit?”

“Oh.” His face lights up with pleasure at the unintended compliment. “I get it. You don’t go for the pretty boy thing. You’re more into a bit of rough like Terry over here.” He nudges the security guard.

“Actually, I’m not interested in either of you. I’m here to see Alex Henri.”

“A French fancier, eh? Like a bit of foreign, do you, Granny?”

“Stop calling me that, you jumped-up little twat.” The words are out of my mouth before my brain has time to process them.

Terri takes a step toward me and lays a warning hand on my shoulder, but Rob waves him off.

“Leave her, Tez.” He looks me up and down and narrows his eyes. “Alex Henri, is it? That you want to meet?”

I nod but say nothing.

He glances at his colleague. “Has Alex ever had a tart this old?”

I knot my fingers behind my back, suppressing the urge to slap Rob around his smug, patronizing face. The bouncer shrugs noncommittally.

“Let her in. This should be funny.” Rob nods his head at Terry who raises his eyebrows but steps backward so the way is clear for me to ascend the stairs. I take a step forward.

“Off you go, Granny. Shag his pants off,” he calls after me as I take the stairs two at a time. The sooner I speak to Alex Henri and leave, the better. There’s something horribly claustrophobic about this club; the ceilings are too low, there are too many people, and it’s too hot. It crosses my mind, as I reach the top of the stairs, that if a fire started in here, half the club would be trampled to death in the charge to get out the tiny entrance door. I fight to suppress the thought as my chest tightens and I squeeze past a group of Mitzi look-alikes and dodge around two huge boxer-types with broken noses. The last thing I need right now is a panic attack.

The VIP section is busier than it was on the ground floor, and it takes me ten minutes to battle through the bodies to the seating area against the far wall. I lose count of the stunning modellike women and athletelike men knocking back champagne, dancing on the chairs, and gyrating against each other. I catch more than one confused look as I make my way through the crowd. I’ve never felt older, uglier, fatter, or more out of place in my life, but I plough on anyway.

“Alex Henri.” I breathe his name as I catch sight of him.

I wasn’t sure I’d recognize him from a couple of tiny Internet photographs and a half-naked poster on Charlotte’s wall, but there’s no mistaking those pale brown eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones.

“Excuse me, excuse me please.” I wriggle and elbow my way through the throng of bodies surrounding his around his table. “I need to speak to Alex.”

I receive countless dirty looks, a jab to the hip, and what I hope is white wine down the back of my dress, but I make it through and suddenly I’m standing a meter away from him. Only a smoked glass coffee table loaded with an ice bucket, champagne bottles, and glasses separate us.

“Alex.”

He doesn’t so much as glance in my direction. He’s got a willowy brunette on one side, a voluptuous blond on the other, and an army of good-looking men and women flanking them. This is what teenagers aspire to, I think, as the table cuts into my shins and the white wine seeps through my dress and rolls down my back, gathering in a pool at the top of my buttocks. This is why they want to grow up to be “rich” or “famous” rather than doctors, lawyers, or flight attendants. There are probably a dozen paparazzi crammed outside the front door right now, waiting to earn their share of the riches by grabbing a shot of a footballer leaving hand in hand with a woman who isn’t his wife or a glamour girl falling into a car with her pantyless crotch exposed. But Charlotte wouldn’t have thought about any of that when she was introduced to Alex Henri. She wouldn’t have considered the dark side of this lifestyle—the superficiality, the lies, the drugs and alcohol problems, and the hangers-on. She would have been dazzled by the bleached smiles, big hair, designer clothes, and fat wallets. And who could blame her? This is a million miles away from the life she normally lives.

“Alex Henri!”

Shouting his name gets his reaction and he looks up. It attracts the attention of several of his friends too.

“Hey, Alex, it’s past your bedtime!” one of them shouts as the rest bray with laughter.

“Your mum says you’re not allowed to play out anymore,” shouts someone else.

There’s a chorus of guffaws and snorts. Alex smiles too, but I can tell from the way he’s twisting his cuff links around and around that he’s nervous. He doesn’t know who I am or what I want.

“Please, maman,” he says, looking me straight in the eye. “Please can I stay out for another hour? I promise to be a good boy.”

The brunette on his right spits out her champagne as she explodes with laughter, and one of the men reaches across the table and high-fives Alex.

“I need to talk to you about my daughter,” I continue. “My name is Sue Jackson. My daughter’s name is Charlotte. You met her a few weeks ago. You…spent some time together.”

“Charlotte, you say?” He pulls his mobile phone out from inside his jacket and presses a few buttons. I hold my breath, my heart thudding with apprehension. “A few weeks ago. Charlotte…” He looks up and shakes his head. “Nope, no mention of shagging a fat British girl here.”

For a second, I have no idea what he’s on about, and then I understand. He thinks Charlotte looks like me. I think of my beautiful, slender daughter lying in her hospital bed, and anger burns in my chest.

“My daughter’s name is Charlotte Jackson,” I repeat steadily. “You met her on March 9. She’s the same height as me but she’s young, blond, and beautiful. Her eyes are the brightest green you’ve ever seen. She’s very distinctive-looking.”

Henri shrugs. “I meet a lot of beautiful women.” He looks away at the blond to his left and throws a lazy arm around her. She snuggles in gratefully and giggles at something he whispers in her ear. His friends turn away, back to each other and their glasses of champagne. I was entertaining for five seconds, but Alex has established that the show’s over now.

“You took her into the club toilets, Alex.”

The room falls quiet. The blond looks at me in surprise, a man in a gray T-shirt and silver cross necklace says, “Get in, son!” and Alex Henri looks at me blankly. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a bald man in a dark suit and lilac tie frown and try to catch Alex’s attention. He looks familiar but I can’t work out why.

“You took her to the toilets,” I say again. “I want to know what happened.”

“What the fuck do you think happened?”

“Want me to show you, Granny?”

“He read her a bedtime story, didn’t you, Alex?”

The comments come at me like mortar fire. The laughter has stopped and the air is charged with aggression. The parasites think I’m attacking their host and they’re on the defense. I look at the floor, just for a second. When I look back up, I’ve dressed myself in an invisible coat of emotional armor. They continue to shout insults at me, but now I shrug them off.

“I’d like to talk to you alone please, Alex,” I say steadily. “My daughter is desperately ill in the hospital and I think that what happened here that Saturday night might have something to do with it.”

“Enough.” Alex stands up, his expression grim, all trace of amusement gone. He looks toward the corner of the room and clicks his fingers.

“Please,” I say as two security guards start toward us. “I just need five minutes of your time. I’m not accusing you of anything. I need to find—ooph—”

The words are knocked out of me as I’m yanked backward, out of the throng of bodies, away from the table, away from Alex.

“She was fifteen!” I shout as I’m frog-marched toward the stairs. “She was underage, Alex.”

“Only fifteen!” I shout again as I’m half-marched, half-dragged across the nightclub. “Alex Henri, she was
fifteen
.”

People stop talking and stare. The music continues its relentless thump-thump-thump, but the room may as well be silent. All eyes are on me. A girl nearby snickers. “Your mum’s pissed again,” someone says. A man guffaws and spits out his beer.

I stop shouting as the humiliation sinks in.

“Enough!” I dig my heels into the carpet and squirm from side to side to try and loosen the guards’ grip on my upper arms. “That’s enough! I’m leaving. You don’t have to throw me out.”

They share a look then warily release their grip.

The crowd parts as I step forward, my “bodyguards” following in my wake, and head for the exit. The doorman I argued with earlier touches a hand to his earpiece as he unclips the rope.

“Don’t come back,” he hisses as I leave. I say nothing. Instead I continue to walk, my head held high, past the queue, down the street, and around the corner. Only then do my knees buckle and I slump into a doorway. I sink down onto the step and hide my face in my hands. How has it come to this? Lying to my husband, being laughed at by strangers, humiliating myself in public? What happened to Susan Anne Jackson, respectable forty-three-year-old politician’s wife, and who is this desperate creature, this figure of ridicule who has taken her place? I might have walked out of Grey’s with my head held high, but that didn’t stop me from seeing the horror and revulsion in the eyes of the people I passed. What happened there, Charlotte? Was it as bad as what happened to me? I run my hands over my face. Or worse?

I sit up and look at my watch. It’s past midnight. If I don’t pull myself together, I’ll miss the last train to Brighton and Brian will want to know why. I stand up slowly, straighten my skirt, arrange my handbag on my shoulder, and set off down the street, my chin pressed to my chest, my arms folded against the cold. Every couple of minutes, I wave at a passing cab, but taxi after taxi speeds past without slowing. It’s only when I reach the end of the street that I realize I have no idea whether I’m even going in the right direction. I glance around, in search of landmarks, but the only thing I can see is the neon glow of a tube sign at the end of a narrow alley that runs between two huge Victorian buildings to my right. I’m too shortsighted to make out the name without my glasses, but I assume it must be South Kensington. Maybe if I hurry I can get the tube to Victoria? A cab speeds toward me, half-blinding me with its headlights, and I throw out a hand but it whizzes past, splashing through puddles, then disappears into the darkness, the “for hire” sign streaking through the night. I look back at the alley and rub my hands up and down my arms. The tube it is.

I set off, tottering as fast as my heels will carry me along the cobbled street, my eyes fixed on the familiar glow of the tube sign in the distance. I keep to the pavement, staying close to the tall buildings on my right, and up my pace. I’m halfway down the alley already, and now that I’ve left the streetlights and cars of the main road behind, long shadows and looming shapes appear from nowhere. There are no houses, no flickering televisions and yellow-hued table lamps warming curtained windows. Instead bars, boards, and shutters creak and slam as I hurry past. The sound of a can rolling down the street makes me jump, and I glance behind me to see where it came from. A man has appeared at the far end of the alley. He’s silhouetted against the blurs of cars on the main road, a black shape with broad shoulders and narrow hips, and he’s moving toward me. This isn’t someone on a late-night stroll through London; this is a man trying to move quickly but without attracting attention. I wait for him to change direction, to cross the road so he’s on the opposite pavement—something most men would do to reassure a lone female at night that they had nothing to fear—but instead he quickens his pace. I glance at the tube sign. Two hundred meters to go. Two hundred meters to safety. I quicken my pace and start to run. The sound of my heels on concrete echoes through the alley—clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop. Seconds later, it’s joined by a new sound—thump-thump-thump—the man has started to run. He’s closed the gap between us. He’s wearing an army jacket, the hood pulled tightly over his lowered face, but I can still make out the shape of his jaw. It’s wide, narrowing to a strong chin, cleft in the middle.