The Woman He Loved Before (38 page)

There was something in his eyes that told me that he was not making idle threats; there was something in his cool, languid body language that reassured me that he would think nothing of carrying out his promise. He was certainly rich enough and powerful enough to do it, to kill me.

I looked at the man on my sofa and saw the shadow of a premature death all prostitutes knew stalked them, and I said nothing. What could I say? He has not given me the forty-five thousand from before – it was going to be a lump sum at the end – and I have nowhere to run to. I doubt the police would take me seriously, and my savings are very depleted from the months I spent looking for a proper job before I started escorting again.

‘Is that understood?’ he said to me.

I stared at him. By understood he meant, of course: you are going to accept those terms.

‘I do not appreciate the silent treatment,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘For your sake, I am glad you’ve accepted.’

And then … then he showed me what he was really like. That clumsy, amateurish man pining for his lost relationship with his wife, who cried after that first and only time, is a lie. He does not exist.

Caesar is nothing like that. The real Caesar has left so many bruises on my body I can barely move. He has made me feel so degraded, I can barely think. The real Caesar is the devil incarnate. And I have made a pact with him.

Must go to sleep now, am hoping my body feels better tomorrow. It may recover quickly but what am I going to do about my mind?

Me

30
^th
July 1996

They’re not all like Arnold, although I have had to ‘see’ him again.

Most of them are a lot worse than Arnold. A couple are as pathetic as him, but the rest …

You know, the worst part of all of this is that Honey has gone. She has left. I cannot access her any more; the mask does not stay in place. It’s me doing these things. Always me. Eve.

I spend so much time in the bath, in the shower, crying, changing my clothes and changing the already-clean bedding. I don’t sleep in the main bedroom, any more, either. I sleep in the smaller second room, so that I do not wake to be surrounded by the memories, the images that are almost solid, the feelings of what I have experienced.

Dawn told me to avoid pimps like the plague. ‘They’ll always bleed you dry, take everything you’ve got, then find someone else. Always.’

Look at me: not only do I have a pimp, I have probably the classiest, poshest pimp in town, who is bleeding me dry, but probably not looking for anyone else.

libby

‘Now you listen to me, Butch, we both know that Jack walked you this morning, so if you’re thinking I’m taking you out right now, you’ve got another think coming.’

Butch whines at me from his place by the door with his lead in his mouth, his big black eyes staring sorrowfully at me.

‘Are you trying to emotionally blackmail me?’ I ask him.

Another whine, this one longer, softer and more pathetic than the last, his head cocks even further to one side, his eyes become even larger.

‘You are a disgrace,’ I tell him. ‘No one’s going to fall for this.’

He whines in reply. Of course I’m going to fall for it. I fall for it all the time. Whenever he’s done something bad and goes to hide under the kitchen table he’ll then whine and simper until I forgive him.

‘You see, the thing is, I haven’t actually been out of the house since I came back from that counselling session. I’ve had no reason to go out and I don’t like being out there. I feel safer in the house and people don’t stare at me in here.’

He lays down and rests his head on his paws, his blue and silver lead clattering as it hits the wooden floor.

I can’t believe this. I am being made to feel guilty by a dog. And it’s not even my dog!

Butch sighs, rather dramatically for a little dog, I feel, but still it’s had its desired effect: ‘Come then,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll head out the back door so I can brace myself for going out there again.’

He takes his time to get up, as if he’s not sure if I really mean it. But then I know, as I go into my bedroom to change into jeans and to find a hat, that he’s probably doing a little victory dance in the corridor.

I’ve made it to the side entrance of the house without any problem but here, at the threshold where the house meets the pavement, I am having trouble moving my foot from the boundaries of the house to the outside.

Obviously Butch has no such worries and sits on the pavement, his head cocked, staring at me. My hand is resting against the rough, cream render of the house as I hold myself up, the air I keep trying to get into my body is rushing in and out too quickly for me to breathe.

I can do this,
I tell myself.
I can do this.

My body will not move, though. My right foot will not lift itself off the ground and move forwards. My chest is rising and falling even faster than before.

I can do this. I can do this.

I force my gaze down, down to my trainered feet to see if they have somehow become welded to the concrete path. They haven’t.

I can do this. I’ve done it twice before, I can do it right now.

BANG! suddenly rocks my body and I feel it through every cell as I’m violently shaken. I look out into the street, looking for the noise, for what is making that noise and BANG! again. I can hear the screech of car tyres, I can feel my body being swept aside, I can see the wall and the lamppost heading towards—

I stumble back, waiting for the collision that isn’t going to happen, that happened nearly a month ago, that is in the past. But it feels like it is happening now and I feel myself hyperventilating.

Butch is sitting on the pavement watching me.

‘Come on, Butch,’
I manage to say. But I’m not making sounds. Like after the crash, I’m speaking with my mouth, but no sound is being produced.
‘Butch!’
I say. Nothing. Nothing. They called it Aphonia. I put my hand to my throat and then turn away, hoping that action will tell Butch to follow.

The pain that has been mainly under control is gripping at my middle again, and I clutch my arms around my body as I force myself to move, to shuffle back to the safety of the house. Butch is by my side, suddenly, walking with me and looking up constantly in something that would look like concern on a human face.

‘It’ll be all right,’
I tell him with my silent voice.
‘When we get inside, it’ll be all right.’

Once I shut the kitchen door behind me, my body unclenches. ‘Are you OK, Butch?’ I ask him. The sound of my voice is a sweetness that I did not know my ears would miss.

Butch barks in reply.

‘Good, that’s good.’ I move to the sink and turn on the cold water tap, splash water on my face, enjoying the chill of it on my skin as well as the ease with which oxygen is now filling my lungs.

‘I’m going to lie down,’ I tell him. ‘And take some painkillers.’ I’ve hardly needed them this past week or so, despite trying to get some more from the GP. But I need them now. I need them to completely kill this pain and to let me sleep.

Silently, Butch follows me to my bedroom. He waits for me to take two tablets, then to lie down on the bed. Once I am settled, he hops up and curls in close to me. He’s been doing that almost every night since Jack started sleeping upstairs again. I should probably tell him to get down, to stop him getting used to the idea of sleeping on a human bed, but as the tablets take over and do their work I reach out and lazily stroke my fingers through his fur. The truth is, it looks like I am stuck in this house, and I feel so much better for having Butch here.

libby

Today, Eve is lying on her back with her eyes wide open, not moving. She looks as though the life has been sucked out of her. That there is nothing left to give.

‘I’m sorry this happened to you,’ I whisper to her.

And she turns to me and smiles.
‘It’s not your fault,’
she says.
‘I’m sorry for what’s happened to you, too.’
Then she returns her unblinking gaze to the ceiling, goes back to being almost dead.

eve

14
^th
August 1996

I went out today to do one of my favourite things – reading on one of the walls that separates the sea from the promenade. It’s so wonderful to be able to spend as much time outdoors as I want during the daylight hours and I often lay back on the concrete, rest the book I’m reading on my chest and listen to the world go by.

It’s calming for the soul, it’s cleansing for the mind, and it is fortifying for the body. I always walk a little way down into Hove because there are less people there than Brighton.

I lay on my back and was devouring the pages of the book in my hand when someone said to me, ‘I don’t often see people reading Noel Coward.’

Jack Britcham. I knew I was going to look up and see Jack Britcham. And I was going to fall apart or burst into tears, or throw my arms around him as you would a friend you haven’t seen in years.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and then opened them again just before I lowered the book and turned my head to the side.

A thousand angels started to sing as I saw him and I did none of the things I thought I was going to do. Instead I stared. I took another gulp of air, then moved the book to look at the cover, as if I didn’t
know that in my hands I held my favourite play written by Noel Coward.

‘Just Eve,’ he said, when I looked at him again.

‘Hello, you,’ I replied, surprised that my mouth could work when it – like the rest of me – was overcome. That was the only word for it. Overcome.

I inhaled again and noticed that his chest, covered in paint-splattered builder’s overalls, rose quite far as he inhaled and then fell as deeply as mine did. His hands were clean, but his hair and face were splattered with spots of white.

‘
Blithe Spirit
is one of his best works,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit crazy, but also rather compelling and cynical.’

I sat up, and I saw the way his eyes watched my hair fall into place around my shoulders. I often watched men watch me and he didn’t have that look in his eyes that repulsed me about men. He wasn’t looking at my hair and imagining his hands wrapped around it, pulling it, or hooking his fingers into it while I did something to him. Jack Britcham was watching my hair fall the way a person watches a waterfall – with fascination and awe. Almost reverence.

‘I don’t think I’ve read it,’ he said. ‘I know I haven’t read it. I don’t know why I said that.’

‘For something to say?’ I replied.

‘You’re probably right.’

We stared at each other for a moment and then both started talking at once. Then we both stopped. And started again. Then stopped. I’d never been in such sync with someone before. We both waited then I raised a hand and pointed to mean, ‘You speak.’

He smiled and made all the butterflies in my stomach do that special pirouette before they fluttered their wings. ‘I was going to tell you that since we met, I’ve been seeing your doppelgangers everywhere I go. It’s silly, but I keep seeing you and then I realise it’s not you. I actually thought I was going to be explaining myself to a woman who had no idea who I was when I saw you a minute ago.’

‘I’ve been doing the same,’ I confessed. ‘Except I haven’t actually approached anyone.’

‘Really?’ he asked, his eyes lighting up. Then they clouded over with confusion. ‘So why didn’t you call?’

Because I’m a whore
, I said to myself.
Because most nights of the week, men I don’t know and I don’t like penetrate or degrade me for the simple reason that I sold my soul to the devil without realising that was who he was. Because you could never love a woman like me. Because I could probably never love the man you really are, only the man I want you to be in my head.

‘Just because,’ I said.

Jack Britcham smiled and I died a thousand little deaths inside that he seemed so innocent and nice and I was anything but. Having said that, it could all be a front. Jack Britcham might be nothing like that. With Elliot, I overlooked his drug-taking, with Caesar I overlooked the whole visiting prostitutes thing, I wondered what there was to ‘overlook’ with Jack Britcham, what little clues to the darkness in his soul there would be that I would ignore.

It didn’t matter at that moment in time because he was standing in front of me, smiling. And there was nothing I had wanted more all these long months.

I smiled back, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then we both started to speak at once again, then stopped, then started, then stopped. I raised my finger and pointed at him again. He killed me all over again with his grin.

‘Will you come for a walk with me?’ he asked. ‘Just up the seafront? I came out to clear my head.’ He indicated to his clothes. ‘I’m still working on my house – it’s a big job – and I love to walk to Brighton and back. Will you walk with me?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You will?’ he asked, surprised.