Lying Together (22 page)

‘You make a beautiful picture.'

The usual words. I smile my usual smile.

He eases himself down beside me. He has long legs, grey trousers – grey flannel trousers. His face, as he turns, is pale and avid. He will be no trouble.

We talk a little. Very little. Then we walk, slowly, in the heat. ‘We can go indoors,' I say. ‘My house is very near.' I point out the back wall, the glistening windows of the Crescent rising above the trees.

As a lover, he is indifferent. I expect no more. He is too eager, too flattered to consider much beyond himself. He is a man who wears grey flannel trousers on a summer's day and is at the mercy of strangers.

He exerts himself, sweats a little, groans. Afterwards he strokes my hair. He looks around – the cornices, the mirrors, the mahogany furniture: ‘It's a massive place. Do you live here all alone?'

‘Not quite.' I like to tease on these occasions. He looks nervous, eyes the door. ‘You needn't worry. We won't be disturbed.'

He senses something. He wants to be away, but my body is across his chest, my fan of hair, still blond, scarfing his pitted complexion. He subsides. Strokes my hair again. ‘I can't make you out. You're very – different – do you know that?'

Of course I know that. I accept that now. I smile. ‘You're not the first to say that.' No, not the first.

He asks to get his cigarettes. They are in his shirt pocket, on the rosewood chair. I say I don't allow smoking. He laughs and says that isn't fair. I tell him this is my house and I make the rules.

But I bring him some tea. Indian tea. Strong and pungent. I bring it to him on a tray. White cloth, china cup. And a red dahlia head floating in a shallow glass vase.

He lifts the cup, reluctant: ‘I don't drink tea, normally.'

But today isn't normal. Surely he can see that? Today is very particular.

I tell him, ‘It's a special blend.'

The temperature has dropped now. The pressure is falling. The windows rattle a little with the evening wind.

I make myself supper. A slice of melon, cold consommé, anchovies on toast, a water ice. I cover the little folding table in my father's study with an embroidered cloth. I put out a silver knife, fork and spoon. I pin the dahlia in my hair. I pour myself a glass of wine.

No one will disturb me tonight.

LYING TOGETHER

W
e'd chosen the countryside because it seemed the right thing. Honest, in a sort of way (more than we'd been, anyway). We'd savoured the thought in those last days cooped up together: two weeks in the open air, regular meals, exercise. And no drinking.

‘What about country pubs?' I'd asked.

He shook his head: ‘No drinking.'

‘Maybe a shandy?'

‘No drinking.'

We'd allowed ourselves cigarettes instead. A hundred each to start off with. Sister Jenkins had looked at us. ‘
They
'll kill you just the same.'

‘Have a heart,' we said.

We'd chosen Wales. Or at least I had. Going home in a way, although the Marches were a bit off my track. I come from Newport; one of those towns people can't get the hang of; neutral, faceless, confused – neither English nor Welsh. Just like me with my disappeared Welsh mother and my dear drunk English dad. But we'd always gone on day-trips up the Usk and the Wye. ‘Best scenery in the world,' I said, remembering school outings, picnics by the river, ruined castles, endless sun. So Bill took me up on it, because I was always boasting and lying. ‘We'll see if you're right, you little toad. Little pissed Welsh newt.'

We'd hired a car. Gary, my ex (ex-what, I'd like to know, he'd never committed himself), let us have one of his write-offs as long as Bill was doing the driving. He doesn't know about Bill; thinks I'm the unsafe one. I didn't tell him. Gary does quite a business now, but doesn't spend more than he has to. I imagine life above the garage is just as it used to be. Sex and engine oil. And invoices. Gary's got a new girl, now. Blond, naturally, and bonded-on stilettos. But I could see engine oil at her roots. Gary insured the car (third party), did all the paperwork in his own name – some scam or other – and got a hundred quid from Bill. ‘For a rotten beat-up Mini?' I said, but Bill said beggars can't be choosers.

When the time came, I was nervous. Fourteen days. Fourteen days of being alone. And being alone together. I'd got too used to living in the public eye. There's a kind of protection there; safety in numbers. Dr Barker said I'd been in too long. He was always saying that. It was his theme tune:
What are you afraid of, Glenys?
I'd been afraid of all the usual things before, but now it was Bill. I was afraid of Bill's private reality, but I wasn't telling Dr Barker that. I'd spent a year sitting in a room full of nutters, trading insults, smoking, watching the jagging picture on the telly and (in the last few months) watching Bill from the corner of my eye as Fat Margaret tried to park herself on his lap, with Dempster going on and on about the wicked ways of women before Sister Jenkins came to break it up. Our smiles across the room weren't private. Always someone to comment, and someone else to bring it up on Mondays:
Have Bill and Glenys got something to tell us?
‘Mind your own fucking business,' I'd say. But even fucking wasn't private when the only place to do it was behind a big prickly bush with some nosy bastard always coming past. It was our drinking place, though, that bush. When we had our famous lapses and sneaked off like kids with a bottle of Johnnie Walker, throwing up in the corner near the wheelie bins before the heavy brigade came to get us. Not a normal life, exactly. Not Mr and Mrs. But something we were used to.

Suddenly, sitting next to him in the Mini, having to make conversation, I was scared stiff. An hour after we'd got on the road, my ashtray was spilling over. And my nails bitten down worse than ever, starting to bleed. I used to have nice nails once. And nice hair – real blond, not bottle. I don't know when it went mousy. When I went into that place, I think. Before that, I was a proper Marilyn Monroe.

‘She was peroxide,' said Bill.

‘Well, Princess Di, then. My dad always said I looked like Princess Di.'

‘You're such a liar,' said Bill. ‘Such a terrible little liar.'

The pubs along the valley were bright and beautiful, with fairy lights and striped umbrellas and baskets of flowers. Best pubs I'd ever seen. But we'd agreed no stopping, not even for a lemonade, not even to have a pee. Ground rules, Bill had said. Only common sense. Sister Jenkins had been unconvinced: ‘How long do you honestly think you'll last?'

‘We'll show you,' we'd said, deciding on B&B for the nights. Farmhouses, we'd said. Off the beaten track, well out of danger. ‘Don't people drink in the country, little newt?' said Bill, but he knew what I was after.

The first farmhouse was up a lane. It was so far up I thought we'd missed it. Then a muddy farmyard and mangy old dogs barking like crazy, running out under the wheels of the car, Bill braking hard enough to send us nearly through the windscreen. We had a picture of a plump farmer's wife: a smooth white apron, a welcoming smile, but everything looked dead and ramshackle. The dogs went on barking and we could hear the fog-horning of some cows in the distance, but no sign of human beings, not a flicker of welcome. We couldn't get out, not with those dogs ready to take a leg off us, so we just sat there: helpless and surrounded. After a bit, Bill slammed the window down and leant on the horn, shouting at the top of his voice. The dogs went manic, jumping and showing their teeth, but nobody came.

‘Deaf buggers! Ignorant bloody peasants!' Bill shoved the car into reverse, dogs scattering and yelping. ‘Stupid bloody animals! They should be kept under control!' He gripped the steering wheel hard, nearly scraping the gatepost as we shot out of the yard. He wouldn't look at me as we went back down the hill.

After that, we thought we'd keep it simple. Something on the main road. No lanes, no dogs, just a straightforward guest house. And there it was, a swinging sign –
Ty Gwyn
. A neat white house with geraniums and a polished brass doorstep. And two single ladies reluctant to let us in. ‘Don't want their rooms dirtied,' said Bill as he pulled our bags from the boot. ‘Don't really want anyone actually staying at all.'

I thought it was the car that put them off. Gary hadn't bothered to fix the dent in the side.

‘One night only,' they said. ‘And single beds.'

We nodded.

‘Oh, and cash in advance.' They thought they had our number, but Bill drew out his wad, what was left of his lump sum, and they let us in.

‘And breakfast at eight, no later mind, as we have to tidy up by nine. And out of the room by half past, please, so we can change the sheets.'

They watched us, hoping we'd change our minds, go away, give them a reprieve. I expect we looked the sort to want to lie in all day, but hospital gets you out of that, breakfast at seven most days. Eight was a treat. So we nodded and ran up the stairs and fell on their pristine sheets in our shoes.

A tap on the door: ‘And no smoking.'

‘Perish the thought,' said Bill, sitting up and unwinding the Cellophane from our second pack.

We opened the window and leant out, letting the ash float secretly onto the neat chips of gravel. ‘Almost yellow,' I said, looking down on them.

‘
Muffin
,' murmured Bill, who'd spent hours decorating the marital semi before Cheryl upped and left. He had the colour cards off by heart: Driftwood, Oatmeal, Cornsilk, Honeycomb, Harvest Moon, Buttermilk. He laughed. ‘Or maybe,
Crumpet
?'

We pushed the single beds together, rucking up the thin square of carpet, scraping the polished floor. We stopped, holding our breath, expecting the women to come. But they didn't. We laughed:
Too busy polishing the fridge!

Then undressing. Both of us nervous with buttons and zips. He had old-fashioned Y-fronts and dark socks that came up to his knees. And part of me was laughing and part of me was gritting my teeth, not wanting him to go any further, not to take off any more. It's stupid, with all the blokes I've been with, but I'd never seen a man naked, not close up, not all over. They'd all kept their kit on, as far as I remember; which of course isn't much. Even Gary couldn't be bothered to take his jeans off most of the time and always fell on me with some sort of greasy T-shirt flapping around his tackle. And I'd close my eyes anyway, knowing he'd be quick. Now I felt shy in my new white undies. Like a bride. Like a virgin. We both laughed and Bill started to sing that song by Madonna, and I was still laughing when I knew I couldn't do it, when he caught hold of me and the blackness opened up in my head, and I couldn't stop shaking. He thought I was shaking with wanting him so much, and nearly didn't stop.

I had to bite hard, pinch and tear at him with my stupid blunt nailless fingers. I heard myself shouting, saying I hated him (Dr Barker's face:
Who is it you hate? Him? Or yourself?
). I started to cry, and Bill slammed his hand against the wall: ‘This is bloody great, this is!' Then he calmed down and said he was sorry, knowing all he knew and everything. And we both said how much we needed a drink.

In the morning, the women watched us while we ate off little square flowered plates with scalloped corners. One pale sausage, one rasher, and a poached egg each; two pieces of toast in a polished silver rack, and an egg-cupful of marmalade; china pot with one teabag, little label over the edge. Bill laughed. ‘Well, I'm not sure I'll be able to move after all this hearty country fare!' I watched everything he did, grateful for its ordinariness. Discovering the way he stirred his tea, spread his butter, wanting to do it for him. I'd never noticed what he ate before, when he'd been squashed up in the day room on the other side of a vinyl table, sticky tray crowded with dishes. Didn't always notice what I ate myself, fretting about pills and ciggies, and who was getting what and going where. Meals were a blur. My whole life was a blur. After Dad, after Gary. Before Bill, after Bill. All a blur.

That's why they say I'm a liar. I just can't remember. And what I can't remember, I make up. Why not? It's more interesting. You can't keep saying, ‘I can't remember.' It's pathetic. And for all I know everything I say might be true. I've told it so often, it's not surprising the story changes a bit, that it's mixed up with all the other stories, with what Dad said, with what Stevie said (could he remember himself?). And then Gary. I don't know what's real any more. It's not clear.

I kept telling them I was usually drunk; stupid drunk. So I could have been wrong. I could have remembered it wrong.
Could have?
Dr Barker looking clever made me more confused.
Why are you making excuses for him?
‘I'm just trying to explain,' I'd say. ‘Trying to get my thoughts straight through the mist.'

I can picture Dad passing me a can when we watched telly together. On the sofa together, side by side. To keep him company, he'd say. Won't hurt you. Anyway, who's to know? He'd smile, all relaxed and nice. I remember that bit. Then getting warm and comfortable. I remember that too. Next thing, not wanting to go anywhere, meet anybody. Missing school, teachers wanting me to talk about my ‘problem', me not wanting to. People looking at me – that Edwards girl. Wanting not to be that girl, to forget everything, not to have to think or make decisions. ‘I was a bad girl,' I told Dr Barker. ‘I liked being drunk.'
Liked it? Or needed it?
He looked me in the eye. I said, ‘How do I bloody know?'

Dr Barker says it wasn't my fault, I was only a child. He says I must believe that. I don't know. I don't know if I believe that. I was fifteen at the end, not exactly a kid. But I was lonely too, Mam gone, and Stevie with Auntie Mags, and no friends I could talk to. I used to shut the door, pretend I couldn't hear Dad whispering. But I can't really remember. And everyone says I'm a terrible liar.

Gary wanted to save me. For himself. He was my first real boyfriend. Steady, I mean, after all the one-night stands. He said that a lovely kid like me didn't want to be hanging around pubs. There were better things to do. Like helping him with his business. He fancied himself, did Gary. He was twenty-four and a bit of a self-made man. He wanted to have me better myself. And he wanted to have me in the process – he wasn't that charitable. We had sex all the time and Gary thought it was what I needed to keep me on the rails. But he never took me anywhere or gave me anything, except sheaves of invoices to check through. ‘Earn your keep, Blondie,' he'd say, throwing them down on the bed and smiling as if that made it all right. And the flat was filthy – oily and smelly and full of spare parts – and he never gave me any money for cleaning things in case I spent it on drink. ‘Cruel to be kind,' he'd say. And then he said I threw his kindness back in his face. He told me I'd broken his heart. He's a liar too. He just didn't like to think his mates had seen me in the pub car park with the punters. ‘Reverting to type,' he'd said. ‘Trying to blame your poor old dad, too. You don't want anyone halfway decent. You're a lying little slag, and you always will be.'

* * *

I watched Bill over the breakfast table. He had that same fresh, just-ironed look that had struck me so much when he'd first come onto the ward. He'd seemed out of place, as if he'd just strolled through the patio window of his tidy little garden and stepped suddenly into Weirdo World. Too bloody healthy-looking for a drunk, I'd thought. Too neat, too clean, too calm. ‘My, we are one for the stereotypes,' said Jenkins when I brought it up at the meeting. ‘Not everyone feels obliged to dress the part.' She was getting at the way I looked after myself – or didn't. I knew the weekly reports by heart: Self-care poor, self-esteem low, self-mutilation an ongoing problem. Dr Barker doing the firmness bit:
If you don't care about yourself, how do you expect anyone else to?
I didn't expect anyone else to. Couldn't he see that was just the point? Some shrinks are really thick. It was easier to let things slide, to have no expectations.
Then you can't get hurt?
Too right. I wanted to be a shadow. Invisible, irresponsible. And not thinking. Never having to think. Saying whatever came into my head. Yes, no, three bags full, whatever you say. Believe what you like. Just don't bother me.