Into the Darkest Corner (14 page)
Christmas Day, I woke up to bright sunshine. Lee wasn’t in bed next to me. From downstairs I heard noises of pots and pans banging along with my headache. I looked across to the alarm clock—half-past nine.
I tried to feel excited, and happy, and Christmassy, but for the time being my head needed nursing.
I fell asleep again and when I next opened my eyes Lee was there with a tray full of breakfast. “Wake up, beautiful,” he said.
I sat up and tried to ignore the way my head felt. “Wow,” I said. Toast, juice, and, because I clearly hadn’t had enough to drink in the last twenty-four hours, champagne.
Lee pulled off his jeans and T-shirt and climbed back into bed next to me, pinching a piece of toast and munching on it. “Happy Christmas,” he said.
I kissed him. Then I kissed him again, until I nearly kicked the tray over, and after that I sat up and drank some juice.
“I was out of order last night,” he said.
I looked at him in surprise. “Out of order? Why?”
He looked at me steadily. “I was mad jealous that you’d gone out wearing that dress. I’m sorry, it was wrong.”
There was a long pause, broken only by him munching.
“Why do you have a thing for red dresses?” I said.
He shrugged. “I don’t really have a thing for
all
red dresses. Just yours. And you in it.”
“I saw you in town last night,” I said. “You were having an argument with someone in an alleyway.”
He didn’t say anything, just put the tray down by the side of the bed.
“It looked like a drug deal. Or something. Is that what you do? Deal?”
“There’s no point in you asking me these questions, Catherine. You know I’m not going to answer.”
“Your job scares me,” I said.
“That’s why I don’t talk to you about it,” he said.
“If you got hurt—like, seriously hurt—would I even find out about it? Would someone call me?”
“I’m not going to get hurt.”
“But what if you do?”
“I’m not going to get hurt,” he said again. He took the empty glass out of my hand and put it on the table next to the bed, then pulled me down onto the bed and kissed me.
“Lee, I’ve got such a pounding headache.”
“I’ve got something that will make that better,” he said.
It didn’t make it better, of course, but it was worth a try.
I let go of his hand and had a drink, letting the coldness of the wine sink into me. I felt a bit queasy, and wondered if it was the wine, or the subject matter.
“I think I’m a bit pissed,” I said with a smile.
He looked at me appraisingly.
“Well, you are a bit pink . . .”
“Shall we go home?” I said. Suddenly I didn’t really want to be out anymore. Two drinks—honestly, I was useless. In years gone by I would have drunk all night and still been fine the next day.
When we got outside the cold air hit me hard and I felt my legs wobble.
He put his arm around me. “Steady. You okay?”
It was a little, internal flinch, and I don’t think he felt it. I wanted this—I wanted him, so much, and yet it was as if my body wasn’t going to allow me near him.
“I was thinking about what you said before, about socializing. About how getting treatment for OCD might give me more time to socialize.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. Now I’m thinking that your kind of socializing is far less threatening than the kind I’m used to.”
“My kind? Is that some sort of back-handed compliment?”
I laughed. “Maybe. I wasn’t always like this,” I said, my teeth chattering a little, as we threaded our way through the throngs of people back toward Talbot Street.
“No?” he said, laughing. “What, you were sober once?”
I gave him a little shove, then got his arm back around me for support as quickly as I could. “No. I mean, I used to be a real party animal. Out every night. Drinking a lot. I was never in. Stupid, really.”
“Why stupid?”
“Well, I put myself at risk all the time. I used to get drunk, and then end up in strangers’ houses, or I’d invite people back to mine. Sometimes I’d wake up somewhere with no memory at all of where I was or what I’d done. When I look back on that now, I can’t believe I’m still here.”
“I’m glad you’re still here.”
“Bet you wish you’d met me back then, huh?” I said jokingly.
He gave me a squeeze. “I’m just glad I met you at all.”
Oh, God, I thought, please stop being so bloody nice to me, I can’t take it, I don’t deserve it.
“Look,” I said, “I was committed. Twice. I thought you should know.”
“After you were attacked?”
“First time was immediately after. They let me out of the hospital after I’d recovered from the physical injuries. I don’t think they really thought about what was going on in my head. I wasn’t really looking after myself, anyway. So I ended up making a scene in some all-night pharmacy and the men in white coats came. Or whoever they were.”
“Probably paramedics, maybe with some help from the police,” he said helpfully.
“After that it was about a year until the case went to court. Then I had a bit of a relapse; that was the second time.”
“Did you get proper help—therapy?”
I shrugged. “Whatever. I’m here now, at least. I’ve come a long way, you know. A long way.”
He nodded. “I can see that.”
“I just wanted you to know,” I said, “in case.”
“In case what?”
“In case it makes a difference.”
We were back outside the house. He opened the door for me and stood aside to let me in. In the hallway, he stood back and said to me, calmly, “Check it once. Just once.”
I gave him a look that said
I’ll check the door however many times I fucking want to, thanks all the same
, but I checked it once. And once felt enough, because he was there.
He went up the stairs first, and outside the door of my flat he paused, waiting on the other side of the door so he wasn’t blocking my way. “Thanks for coming out,” he said.
I stood still for a moment looking at him, feeling the gulf between us like a void and wanting to cross it.
I don’t know who moved first, whether it was him or me, but suddenly he had me, my arms were around him, inside his jacket, holding him as tight as I could. One of his big hands was cradling my head, and the oddest thought came into my head about how strange it felt, and I realized my hair was short now and not long. It was like a realization that I wasn’t that person anymore. Suddenly I wanted to grow my hair long again, just so I could feel what it would be like to have his fingers through it, holding my head.
He let out a breath, like a sigh, and I lifted my head and kissed him. At first he didn’t kiss me back—he froze, just for a moment. Then the hand that had been cradling my head came around to my cheek, his fingers cool against my burning skin, and then he was kissing me too. He tasted faintly like Guinness. I felt my knees start to give, and his hold around my waist tightened a little. He felt so strong, despite his injured shoulder.
I should be panicking. I should be fucking terrified, I thought. But I wasn’t. I didn’t want him to let me go.
He pulled away from me to look at me, one of his hands supporting me at my back, the other at my cheek. Perhaps he’s trying to see just how angry I am, I thought, curiously. But it wasn’t that. There was anxiety in those green eyes. He was checking I was okay.
Clearly I was fine, because he kissed me again, then, and I think it was a bit more forceful than he meant it to be—the day’s worth of stubble grazing my mouth.
Gradually he began to release me, and my hand slipped reluctantly from the skin of his lower back, which it had found by somehow getting up inside his shirt. He took a step backward so he could look at me.
I thought,
Don’t you dare apologize for what just happened. Don’t you fucking dare say sorry
.
“Will you come inside?” I asked, casting a glance at the door of the flat. I wanted to take his clothes off, and I wanted him to screw me. Right then, right at that moment, I think I might even have paid him to do it.
There was a long pause, which grew more terrible with every moment. Then he shook his head. He looked as though he was debating with himself over what to do next, and some sort of internal battle was suddenly won, because he took a step forward and kissed me again, quickly, on my hot cheek this time, and whispered, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” before turning and taking the stairs up to his flat two at a time. I heard the key in the lock, the door opening, and closing, and then it was silent and I was all alone outside my flat as though I’d just come in from work.
Except I was swaying a little as though there was a strong wind, and I was desperate for a pee.
My cell phone rang while we were still tangled up in each other. I found it easy to tune out the sound, concentrating on Lee’s body and the rhythm of it. He grimaced and I felt him tense, distracted. “Fucking phone,” he muttered, running a hand across his forehead.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Leave it. Don’t stop.”
It changed the mood. He pushed me off roughly, took a handful of my hair and turned me onto my front. I yelped with the sudden pain but he took no notice, forcing himself into me from behind. I struggled against him but he pulled my head back and kept going, harder.
It only took a minute longer. I heard the noise he made when he came, then he pulled out of me and got off the bed immediately, went into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him with such force that the window rattled.
My scalp was tingling from where he’d pulled my hair as I lay still, listening to my heart pounding in my chest. What the hell was that all about? I heard the shower starting.
When the phone rang again I answered it.
“Darling! Happy Christmas.” It was Sylvia.
“Hello, love, how are you?”
“Not drunk enough. You?”
“It’s only half-past twelve,” I said, checking the clock. “You’ve started already?”
“Course. Don’t tell me you’re still in bed.”
“Might be.”
“Well,” she said huffily, “I probably would be too if I had Lee to keep me company.”
“You’re welcome to him,” I said, “he’s in a foul mood this morning.”
“Hm,” she said. “Want me to come over and kick him into shape?”
“No, you’re all right,” I said, laughing at the thought of it. “What are you up to?”
“You know, stuff . . . Mother wants me to help her cook lunch, I want to go out in my new clothes. Same old.”
I finished the call a few minutes later and got dressed, scruffy jeans and a sweater, warm socks. Downstairs the kitchen was a mess, toast crumbs and used teabags in the sink. I was halfway through the dishes, singing along to Christmas carols on the radio, when Lee came downstairs. He was wearing jeans, nothing else. His upper body was taut, his skin damp. He grabbed me, arms around my waist, and made me jump.
“You all right?” I said.
He buried his face in my neck. “Yeah,” he said. “Apart from that fucking phone. Who was it?”
“Sylvia.”
“Might’ve known.”
“You hurt me, you know.” I turned in the circle of his arms to face him.
“Hurt you how?”
“You pulled my hair and it really hurt.”
He gave an odd smile and rubbed the top of my head. “Sorry ’bout that. Don’t you like it rough?”
I considered. “I’m not sure,” I said. “Not rough like that.”
He let me go, took a step back. “All women like it rough,” he said. “Those that say they don’t are just lying.”
“Lee!”
But he just laughed, and went into the living room. Maybe he was joking after all, I thought, maybe he didn’t mean it. I ran my fingers through my hair from the roots to the ends. Long strands of it came away. I looked at the hair and shook it off my hand into the kitchen garbage.
Sunday again, and it’s cloudy, so technically it should be a good day. I might go for a run later.
Just at the moment, though, everything feels completely and utterly shit.
After he’d left me standing outside my flat and gone upstairs, I felt just as though I’d made a total fool of myself. It was a kind of dull awareness, still feeling a bit warm and fuzzy due to having two glasses of wine (two glasses! My God), but now—in the cold light of a dull and windy December morning, all I can think of is how I told him happily that I’d been institutionalized, not once but twice, and how he froze when I kissed him, how he extricated himself from my clutching fingers and then ran as fast as his legs would carry him up the stairs.
What on earth did I think I was doing? He must have sensed the desperation coming off me. No wonder I’m a complete nutcase. No wonder I can’t get out of the flat without checking everything forty times. Now I’m not just a nutcase, I’m a
desperate
nutcase who needs sex so badly she practically has to pounce on the only male who’s shown any interest in the last year. And as if it couldn’t get any worse, this man was a psychologist—if anyone knew what crazy looked like, he did.
Inside my flat, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My face was wet with tears, which I must have been shedding without realizing, while he’d been kissing me. Under the tears, my cheeks were fiery red. I didn’t look as if I’d just been kissed to within an inch of a heartbeat, I looked as if I’d been dumped.
Which, in a way, I had.
On a more positive note, however, all this provided such a great distraction from my normal woes that I managed to get away with only checking the flat once last night. Once.
I didn’t sleep, though. I lay awake for hours, going over everything he’d said, and everything I’d said, trying to analyze the bits where I thought he’d been trying to tell me he fancied me, and all I could come up with sounded lame, could be interpreted differently: that he wasn’t ready for a relationship (which he’d actually
said
) and nor was I (which
he’d
said as well) and that he’d had a shit time with his fiancée. The subtext of it all seemed to be that he needed my company and enjoyed being with me because, clearly, if neither of us wanted a relationship, then he was perfectly safe spending time with me, without me pouncing on him. All of which he’d said, right before I fucking pounced on him.
Shit.
At about three in the morning, I got out of bed, turned the heating on and sat shivering in my bathrobe for ten minutes with a cup of tea. When the warmth started to seep through, I decided to have a go at the deep-breathing thing. Why not, after all? I had fuck all else to do.
This time I tried hard to do it without thinking about Stuart. Thinking about him now might make things worse, not better. Of course, the harder I tried
not
to think about him, the more impossible it became. I looked up to the ceiling, listened to the roaring silence inside my own ears, wondering if he was having trouble sleeping too. If he was, it was because he was lying there wondering what on earth he was going to say to me the next time he saw me.
“Um, hello, yes, I know I kissed you back, but really I’d rather shave my own eyebrows off than kiss you again. Would you mind not pouncing on me again? Thanks awfully.”
I even tried giving myself a severe talking-to.
I am
not
going to let this hold me back. I am recovering from my OCD. I am going to get better, every day. I am recovering because I
can
do it. All he did was point it out; he’s not making me better, I’m making myself better.
After that, I had another go at the deep breathing, and this time I managed it. Just for three minutes, and it was a relief when the timer went off. I did feel calmer after that, crawled back into bed, and, as it started to get light outside, finally managed to sleep.
This morning I woke up and for a moment I could only remember the feeling of being kissed, how delicious he tasted, how strong and warm and safe he felt, and then I remembered the context of it all and I felt sick. After my eight o’clock cup of tea, I decided to be brave and go for a run. I got dressed in sweats and running shoes, eyeing the clouds through the window, daring it to rain. That would just about finish me off, I thought, and would be no more than I deserved; half an hour running through rain, or better yet sleet, would just about serve me right.
I checked the flat three times, which wasn’t bad, but not good either for a weekend. I used a big safety-pin to clip my door key inside the pocket of my sweatshirt, checked it was secure, then at last I could set off.
It was windier than I’d realized, and my route to the park meant I was running into the wind most of the way. By the time I made it to the park gates I couldn’t feel my face anymore. Inside the park, I managed a sprint all the way up the hill, breathing until my chest hurt and then catching my breath at the top, gazing out across the view, all the way down toward the river, Canary Wharf and the Dome. The clouds were scudding across the sky, getting darker and stormier by the minute.
I headed off back down the hill, completing a circuit of the park, getting back to the gates just as the clouds broke and big droplets of icy rain began to fall. I thought about sheltering under the awning of the café, which was closed, but I don’t like hanging around in the park any longer than I need to, particularly in this sort of half-light when you can’t see who might be approaching. So I ran on.
And, of course, by the time I got back to Talbot Street the rain was easing off to a light drizzle. I was soaked, my hair spiked up in all directions by the rain and my own sweat, my cheeks stinging from the cold.
Just as I got to the house, the front door opened and Stuart came out. He was so busy checking that the door was properly closed behind him that he didn’t see me at first, and for a moment I contemplated diving behind the neighbors’ gate.
Too late.
“Hi!” he said, and his voice was so bright and friendly that I was taken aback by it.
“Hello,” I said, breathing hard, wishing I could have run just a little bit faster and made it home before he’d come out.
“I’m just going to go and buy some things for breakfast. Do you want some?”
“Um—I need to get changed,” I said, lamely.
“That’s okay,” he said, eyeing my soaking wet sweats. “You go and get some dry clothes on. When you’re done, come up to the flat. Bacon and eggs all right?”
“Great,” I said.
He gave me a grin and went to pass me.
“Stuart,” I said.
He turned back to me, keys in his hand.
“I just wanted to say—er—thanks. For last night. For—you know. Not coming in. For turning me down. I’m sorry, I think the wine went to my head a bit.”
He looked confused. “I didn’t turn you down.”
“What?” I said. “Didn’t you?”
He took a step toward me, and put one hand on my upper arm, the way he’d done that night to calm me down. “No, I didn’t. I just didn’t take advantage of you.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No, it’s not the same thing at all. I wouldn’t have turned you down.”
He gave me a smile as my heart pounded, and not from the running. Then he said, “See you in a minute,” and set off toward High Street. I stood and held my breath and watched him until he turned the corner.
