Hard (8 page)

I
can’t
do it. I
can’t
…

Back at the peephole, I looked through it to find
he’d
stepped back and was glancing up and down the landing
as though he expected me to come along any second. When I didn’t bustle up the
stairs, shopping bags dragging me down, bringing the scent of the crisp air
outside with me, he frowned and chewed the inside of his cheek. And there I
was, battling with whether to let him in or wait until he left.
He’d
come a long way, though, and what if he had some
important news for me? I shook my head at that. If there were news the police
would have called round, telephoned, written to me. There was no explanation
for Michael being on my doorstep.

I swallowed again and quietly cleared my throat. ‘What do you
want?’

He started, came closer. His position gave me the idea
he’d
raised one hand, had pressed it to the door. I lifted
mine, placing it where I thought his might be, and felt stupid that
I’d
done it. What had I thought, that
I’d
feel the heat of him through the wood? That some of his strength would pass
through and go into me, help me to get better?
I’d
thought many silly things lately — too much time to think did that — but this
had to be the silliest.

‘I came to see you,’ he said.

His voice, God, it made everything bad go away for a few seconds,
as though just his cultured tones had the ability to wipe the slate clean, as if
none of it had ever happened. But it had, it bloody well had, and I
was left
dealing with the aftermath.

‘I see that,’ I said. ‘And you called me Rebecca.’

He closed his eyes momentarily, clamping his lips tight. He knew
he’d
made a mistake. Possibly a fatal one if my home
had been bugged
. If the landing had
been
bugged
.

‘You called me Rebecca, out there on the landing where anyone
could hear you.’ I
didn’t
know why I wanted him to
feel bad about that. Why I had the need to make him suffer just as much as I
had. Yet if I was horrible to him
he’d
go away, and
that was best for both of us.
He’d
been kind to me in
the past, had done more than anyone with regard to making sure I was all right,
and me punishing him for it was warped and mean.

And
he’d
made me fall in love with him.

Seeing him now hurt.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Lisa, let me in.’

That name still sounded foreign when people said it, like it
didn’t
belong to me, wasn’t who I was, and Lisa…she
wasn’t
me. I was Rebecca, always would be,
but the new name was a lifesaver, something I had to get used to whether I
liked it or not. At least
I’d got
to choose it myself.
I’d
wanted something no one would take any notice of,
a name that blended with the million others out there. Normal. I just wanted to
be normal.

Normal people
would let him in. Normal people would twist the two keys on the mortise locks,
draw back the four chains, push up
the
snib
on the Yale and open the door. Normal people would tell him what I
was meant
to do if I ever saw him again.

But I
wasn’t
normal. Not anymore.

‘I can’t,’ I said, then bit my bottom lip hard so it hurt, so it
brought tears of pain and not self-pity. Or anger.

‘Please, just let me in.’ A pause, then, ‘Lisa.’

I turned and pressed my back to the wall beside the door,
whittling my fingers at waist height, grazing over the ragged skin on my thumbs.
I felt sick with not knowing what to do. It was Michael, definitely him. I
closed my eyes, coaching myself calm, whispering that it would be all right, that
it would be nice to have some company on a Saturday morning. Maybe I could make
him some lunch, and when he
left
it would give me
something to think about over the coming week while I wasn’t at work.

‘Okay, Lisa.
I’m
going to go away now.
Leave you be. I understand.’

I whipped around to look through the peephole again. He
wasn’t
meant to have said that, I hadn’t expected him to. He
was supposed to have kept on until
I’d
pulled up
enough courage to open the door, until he’d convinced me it was the right thing
to do. That he was giving up so easily
hurt,
and I
didn’t understand why.
Didn’t
want to delve too deep
and
admit
why. That would be going a
step too far into territory
I’d
walked into before and
had been left wanting.
I’d
been a mess of emotions — still
was — and hadn’t been thinking clearly as I’d blundered ahead, using Michael as
my safety net when all he’d been doing was being a kind person.
I’d
latched onto him — dangerous, that — and convinced
myself he’d been one ship who hadn’t wanted a limpet on his hull.

He took a step away from the door, and my heart rate skittered.

‘Don’t,’ I said.

He moved back to where
he’d
been. ‘It
will be all right, you know. If you open the door, it will be all right.’

Of
course
I believed him, and of course I
knew it would be all right to a certain degree. He
wouldn’t
let anyone hurt me, wouldn’t expect me to open the door if anyone else was
around. And who would be apart from the old man next door to the left and the
student to the right? Other tenants in the block
didn’t
bother with this floor, as all three of us tended to keep ourselves to
ourselves. Yet fear took hold again, the kind that would reopen the floodgates
if I let it, reminding me just how stupid
I’d
been
over Michael. How wrong
I’d
been. He didn’t know how
I’d felt about him — how I still felt — but if he saw me, maybe my secret would
be written all over my face.
He’d
know and then he’d
have to rebuff me and my pain would be worse than it was now.

‘So will you?’ he asked. ‘There’s no one out here but me, I assure
you. And I only came down for a social visit. I wanted to see you. Oxford is so
busy, so big, and after we last met I wanted to see how you were and —’

‘You could have telephoned to find that out,’ I said, damning
myself for saying such a thing.

‘I could, you’re right, but it’s hardly the same, is it?’

No, it
wasn’t
, but we’d have been safer
if he had. He
wouldn’t
see the longing, my need — my
stupid, stupid need.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked,
knowing full well
what he’d meant. I just wanted to
know,
by his tone or
what he said next, whether…whether my need was one-sided. It would be, I was
sure of that, but still, I perversely wanted to torture myself some more.

‘Well, the telephone is impersonal, isn’t it? I wanted to sit with
you. See you.’

To ease his conscience?
To see me one
final time so he could put this
whole
sorry mess to
bed and never have to worry about me again? It was an admirable trait he had,
worrying, being genuine in that he really did care about people, but I was just
a person, someone
who’d
been shoved into his life
without him wanting me there. Someone
he’d
had to deal
with just because I’d been related to his case. The last time
we’d
seen one another had been an unexpected surprise, too,
and I’d made it clear he wasn’t welcome in my life.

‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘But I am rather busy and —’

‘Are you?
Too busy to even stop what you’re
doing for me?’

What had he meant by that? My hopes rose, images scooting through
my head of him coming in, sweeping me into his arms and telling me he loved
me, that
he’d loved me from the start but hadn’t been able
to act on it. Me laughing, back to being Rebecca again, confident, normal Rebecca,
kissing his face and bursting with so much happiness it had me crying.

Stop it. Stop it.

‘Well…’ I tried to think of what to say. ‘I was just about to
clean and —’

‘I don’t mind mess.’

‘I do. I don’t want you to see it.’

‘Then I’ll wait until you’ve put some things away if it makes you
feel better.’

‘But there’s too much to do.’

‘I have time. I could maybe take a walk, go and see the monument
at St Giles. Have a pot of tea in the
Randolf
Hotel, come
back in an hour.’

‘That’s not long enough.’

I scrunched my eyes shut, hating myself for lying, for pushing him
away when all I wanted to do was have him come inside. Why
couldn’t
I just open the door? Why was everything such a trial?

‘Two hours then,’ he said. ‘Will that do you?’

He
wasn’t
going to give up, was he? A
surge of dread shot up from my stomach, bile flooding the back of my tongue
because
I’d
lied.
Lied
, lied,
lied, and he didn’t deserve that. Before I could talk myself out of it, I
opened my eyes and scrabbled at the locks, my hands shaking,
my
knees jolting. The chains came next, me wrenching them back, the sound of metal
on metal seeming too loud, too abrasive. I flipped up
the
snib
then grabbed the Yale knob, twisting, twisting
it until, if he pushed on the door, it would open. And I wished
he’d
do that so it took the final decision out of my hands.
Instead, I let the knob go, the keeper falling back into place, and stepped
away, my breaths coming out as heavy pants. A panic attack was raising its ugly
head, peeping out from
wherever the hell
it hid until
it decided to overcome me.

‘No,’ I said, to the attack, not Michael, and sprang forward,
turned the knob then stepped back again.

The door opened a tad, like a disguised yawn, and I reversed into
the living room, unable to stand seeing it ajar like that. It was too much, too
frightening even though it was only Michael on the other side.
I’d
seen him, I knew damn well it was him. The visual or his
voice
hadn’t
been enough confirmation, though, and I
darted to the door at the back of the room that led to a short hallway. There,
I stared at the bathroom door, the kitchen,
then
my
bedroom.
Chose the latter because of the corner, my place,
the safe haven.
I knew it was insane, knew me rushing over there and
hunkering down
wasn’t
right — mental, some would say —
but I did it anyway. Fitted my back into the corner, bent my legs and rested my
chin on my knees.
Hugged my shins.
And stared at the
doorway, knowing
he’d
come in, knowing he’d look at me
as though I belonged in an institution. And maybe I did. Maybe I bloody did.

I heard the door close — thank God
he’d
shut it — and waited for him to find me. I could have stood, could have made
out I was straightening the quilt, him none the wiser that I was a complete
mess.
Him smiling, taking my hand and leading me to the
kitchen where he waited for me to boil the kettle and sort out cups for some
tea.
Telling me it was great to see me again, that
he’d
missed me, and asking how things were going on the work front.

It took ages for him to appear, and when he did shame burst inside
me and my face heated. Tears burned my eyes, a mixture of relief at seeing him,
knowing he was there, that he’d wanted to pay me a visit — me, a visit! —
and
the utter fear of being seen as a fuck up. He filled the
doorway as
I’d
imagined many times he would, his
shoulders almost brushing the frame either side. He stared across at me, a look
of sorrow on his face — or was that pity, I
couldn’t
be sure.
Raised one hand to jam it into his short dark hair,
shaking his head and biting the inside of his cheek again.

‘Rebecca, stand up,’ he said.

I’d
thought if
anyone had ordered me to do something like that now I’d have remained in place,
refusing to get up, not being able to through fear. But it
didn’t
work out like that and I stood, arms dangling at my sides, and lowered my head
because I couldn’t look at him, just couldn’t bloody look.

‘Your hair,’ he said. ‘I like it that way.’

I
didn’t
bother to respond.

‘It’s tidy in here,’ he said.
‘
Very
tidy.’

‘I know.’ My face grew hotter. I wanted to cry.

‘So you just didn’t want me to come in?’

‘No.’

‘No, you didn’t want me to come in?’

‘No, I wanted you to. I just…’

‘Are things still difficult?’

‘Yes.’ I swallowed the hard lump in my throat. ‘They always are.’