Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Because I had unlocked the door and put music on, I felt his hands before hearing his voice. He kissed my cheek. There was cider on his breath. He must have had a productive day, because he was in a good mood. I felt my unease release; when he was happy, we were happy. I told him that I was making risotto. My friend Fiona, who came third on MasterChef , gave me the recipe. He sniffed and asked what she had said to put in it.

Sage, leeks, celery.

Don’t put sage in that.

He watched me chop. Make sure they’re all the same size. And is that the pan you’re using? I asked if that was wrong, and he laughed. It was a valiant effort but I’ll make it. He hooked a finger in my belt loop and steered me to the sofa like I was a shopping trolley.

I listened to him chop everything apart from the sage, and the weight of my own thoughts and feelings lifted. The sun was setting through the glass, and he was moving around my kitchen, singing to the music and proffering cooking advice: You have to salt them before you fry them, honey. This was what I wanted: our bad bits gone. The sizzling of onions. Laptops left on the table at night. I remembered how Dad would cut the bruises off pieces of fruit before handing them to me.

By the time we started eating, the sun had set and he was telling me about an idea he had for a column to accompany his book. He told me that it came to him during a shift at the bar as he listened to one of the regulars opine about last week’s paper. Do you get it? he said with momentum. The author will be Charlie.

The journalist?

No, Enola, he said sarcastically, the ballet dancer. Then he interrupted himself: Fuck, this risotto is good! Your mate might have won MasterChef if she had done this.

It was now or never. There wouldn’t be a better time to tell him. I put my fork down and told him that I had some news. He made a noise but didn’t look up from his plate.

You know that agent that Amy put me in touch with?

He froze.

She’s asked for my full manuscript.

He choked on a mouthful of risotto and took a sip of water. That’s great, honey, he said, thumping his chest. I thought that he was going to speak once the mouthful cleared, but he didn’t.

Yay! I said like a child at a birthday party that none of her friends had turned up to. He continued eating, and I flashed back to standing by the cabinet of ornate dogs in my underwear.

I offered seconds, but he said he was full. I asked a question about his column, but he said that he might not do it after all. I went to the bathroom, and when I returned, the table was cleared as if the evening had never happened.

I DIDN ’ T SEE HIM for the rest of the week, and his messages were sporadic and short. I hoped that he might apologize, but he didn’t. ( Are you surprised? asked Ruth.) I felt like I was back in those two weeks after our holiday, and I struggled to write or muster excitement about sending my book to Diana. I suggested meeting twice; the first time he was working and the second he had plans with Steph. But then on Sunday he messaged:

I can come over after my shift if you like.

I opened the door and he instantly made a point of saying that it had been a long one—a warning to me. We watched television like we were waiting for the episode to finish and then got undressed the same way. I put on my flowered nighty that he enjoyed teasing me about. When I first wore it he joked that I belonged in a nursing home and gave me a Mario Kart T-shirt to wear instead. About time you wore something sexy, honey. But tonight he didn’t say anything, and I felt like the punch line of the same joke.

We got into bed, and he checked his phone and smiled. The light was on as if he was waiting for something, so I kissed him, but his lips were pursed. I made a comment about how it had been a while, and he asked me what that meant. I told him that I missed being with him. I wasn’t sure what else it could mean. He put his phone down. You know I’m just depressed right now—don’t take it personally, Enola. But it was hard not to take it personally when every time Steph messaged, he smiled. I knew that I had to talk to him, but I also knew that might mean an argument, so I geared myself up to speak like I was preparing to jump off something. But I mistimed it, and we spoke at the same time.

Are you going to turn that light off? / Is everything okay?

I wanted to take my question back, but it was out there, half-cooked. He asked what I was accusing him of now. Here we go. I told him that it was just a question. He snorted like that was a technicality. I wrung my nighty tightly. He hated when I second-guessed him, but I knew that something was wrong, just as I had known that something was wrong in Kenya. I kept my tone gentle and my posture unconfrontational. I said that things had felt tense.

What are you talking about?

Since I told you about Diana.

Who’s Diana?

He knew who Diana was. I wasn’t sure whether he was pretending that everything was okay or trying to undermine me, but I explained again. Okay, and sorry, what’s the issue there? he asked, like he was poised to write down my answer. I unraveled the nighty and said that he hadn’t seemed happy for me.

If you want to talk about anything or if you’re feeling—

He interrupted me with a breath. Do you really think I’m that insecure?

No!

You think I’m that pathetic?

Of course not!

Then you must think I’m jealous or something.

I—

Because I think that the problem isn’t whether or not I’m happy for you—which I am—the problem is that I didn’t show my happiness in the exact way that you wanted.

I could feel my heart now, and it was harder to keep my tone soft.

So, everything’s okay?

Yes! I’ve just had a busy week!

I told him that I appreciated him saying that he was happy for me, but something in my tone provoked him because he continued, livelier: I am happy, I’m thrilled that Amy thought of someone other than herself.

I told him that Amy had been nothing but supportive. And it’s not a competition. There’s room for everyone! He snorted and called me na?ve.

The rain was coming down outside, and the wind rattled the windows. His rucksack was against the wardrobe, with his manuscript protruding from the top, marked with red scribbles. He was struggling. I had to be patient. I needed to understand .

I touched his chest and told him that as soon as he sent the book off, his life would change, but he pulled the duvet up and told me not to patronize him. I’m a “privileged straight white man,” as everyone is so keen to remind me. No one cares how good my book is when my voice is worthless.

I didn’t mean to laugh, but it seemed absurd. Come on, you can’t think that your voice is worthless. Your voice is dominant! Look at the world right now. I mean, Donald Trump is running for president!

He said that I was deliberately missing the point. I asked what the point was, and he said that diversity shouldn’t be a genre. I said that it shouldn’t be a scapegoat either. He turned his body to me. A scapegoat for what?

My pulse increased.

My failure?

No! You’re not a failure! You’re not failing . Your writing is brilliant.

His eyes flashed, and the fight that had been floating in the shallows surfaced. He was angry now, shirtless and broad with dark coarse hairs, and I was a child in a pensioner’s nightgown. You’re lucky, he said, sarcasm like an undercurrent. You don’t have to worry about being brilliant when you have Amy.

So that’s why he’s not happy for me. I dug my nail into my thumb. I asked him if that was why he didn’t want Patrick doing the illustrations. You don’t think the book is going to be good? He asked me how many weeks I had been hanging on to that for. I told him that he hadn’t even read it. He said that he didn’t recall my asking him to read it. I told him to stop doing that. Please just talk to me.

What do you think I’m doing?

Trying to win an argument!

And you’re not trying to win the argument? Let’s recap. So far, you’ve attacked me for not throwing you a party about your news, which, considering the headspace I’m in, is pretty fucking selfish, and now you’re lecturing me about privilege?

What do you mean by that?

I mean, Enola, that it’s easy to drift around working in a coffee shop when you had a flat bought for you in central London.

I put my palms over my eyes and stared into the red-black. When I had spoken to Ruth, my argument was logical, but now his argument sounded logical too. And yet he had been distant all week. I hadn’t made that up. But what if that distance was never about Diana? He didn’t have the time to see me, but he had seen Steph. He always had time for Steph. I dropped my hands and asked him what was happening.

We’re having an argument, Enola.

Yes, but why?

He smiled. Just say it.

I raised my eyebrow meaningfully. He punched the bed. I pinched my skin and held the pressure.

You see, this is what you do. We’re talking about one thing and you blow it into another. I will not argue about Steph. You are insane when it comes to her, Enola.

I hated that he thought that, like I was no better than Jessica. But I didn’t feel insane; I felt right. I told him that he texted Steph all the time, but I was lucky if I got a reply from him. He told me that I sounded like a child. I said that I was just asking a question. He asked what the question was, but I couldn’t remember. He told me that I was waiting for something to go wrong. Asking me if I’m okay. Looking at me with doe eyes. You want something to be wrong because you’re happier being miserable for some fucking reason.

That’s not fair, that’s—

He threw his head back. Fine, that’s not fair , whatever. But there is always something . I told you, Enola, I’m not your fucking therapist!

I told him that I didn’t want him to be my therapist; I wanted him to be my partner. He said that he was trying to be, but that it was fucking hard sometimes. Oh god. My throat felt like something was squeezed around it. I curled into myself to be alone. What had my question been? When I felt the warmth of his hand on my back, I lifted back up.

Honey, you’ve never been in a long-term relationship before, have you? Have you considered that being in a relationship might not be for you? He lifted his hands like I had a gun pointed at him. Don’t take that the wrong way, relationships aren’t for everyone. Then he turned and fluffed his pillow.

Panic rose hot and dark. I hated him I hated him I hated him, but I couldn’t let him finish fixing the bedding. I asked him to listen. He said that he didn’t need this right now. He had a million things to do. That’s enough, Enola. He lay back and closed his eyes, but the silence was active. How could he turn off a fight like a light switch?

Can we please finish this? I said. You can’t let the sun go down on your anger.

He popped up like a jack-in-the-box. Because if you heard it in a song then it must be true?

Fuck you , I thought. Fuck you. And I started shouting. I hadn’t shouted at him before, and it was a downpour. I shouted that his reaction to my news was upsetting. I shouted that I hated how he went from hot to cold. I shouted that I didn’t know how to talk to him. I shouted that I knew that Steph had feelings for him. I heard my high, strained voice and knew that I should shut up; I was in a hole and every word made the hole deeper and darker but I kept hopelessly searching for the right word to close the hole up.

He waited until I ran out of words, and then he said: You’re being a fucking cunt.

I slapped him.

He held my gaze and then slapped me with a force that propelled my face onto the bed. Everything slowed the way the tide pulls back before a wave. The rhythm of my cheek. The smell of my orchid laundry detergent. And then it came: the panic.

What have I done? Oh god, what have I done.

I straightened up, and he was dressing. Stop it, please, I said.

He looked at me, growled: Do you know how pathetic you look? Stop clutching your face! Grow up. He pulled his jeans up, and his boxers bunched. No, stop it! He put his T-shirt on back to front. Take it off. His trainers. Take them off. Pressure built around my head like a helmet. The air was thick and wet. He charged to the door, but I threw myself in front of it. You can’t leave. You can’t leave me. My nighty slipped off my shoulder.

I’m warning you, Enola, get off me right now. His face was purple. He shoved me into the door.

I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Please don’t leave me. I’m so sorry.

Fuck! He flung his hands over his head then, from his rucksack, retrieved his inhaler, sat on the edge of the bed, and inhaled twice. But I couldn’t breathe. Gaps appeared. The room was dark. An echo told me to sit on the bed.

I am on the bed.

Here, drink this.

There is a glass of water in my hand.

Come on, drink.

I can’t grip the glass with my invisible hands.

You need some water, Enola. You won’t get your breath back if you don’t stop crying. Relax, honey. Relax. He took a sip and lay me back. He pressed his mouth to mine and released the water. He did it three more times, touching my skin like it was tracing paper. I thanked him for feeding me like a bird. He smiled and told me that I was welcome.

O UR BODIES STAYED ENTWINED until the light shone through the blinds. I felt suction when we separated. Holding the duvet over his mouth to hide his breath, he asked if he could buy me breakfast.

I got dressed and thought about telling Ruth what happened but I didn’t want her to think that he was abusive, the same way that I didn’t want him to think that I was making myself the victim. It wasn’t like he hit me; it was a flat palm and I had slapped him first. He was only guilty of being a man.

Ready?

He was stood in the doorway in his olive-green shirt, silver chain, denim jacket, and black jeans. The same outfit he wore when he came to my flat for the first time.

The sun was shining, and we walked to the café chatting about things we could see: a new restaurant, graffiti on a wall, a cute dog. But then he stopped us in the middle of the pavement, looked into my eyes, and kissed me. I knew then that everything would be okay. He took my hand and we continued walking in silence.

He got us a table while I went downstairs to the bathroom. The cubicles smelled of sandalwood and jazz played from individual speakers in the ceiling. When I returned, he would show me a video that he had found while waiting. Otters in a lake perhaps, or someone falling down. The latter I would shake my head at, and he would roll his eyes affectionately. Affectionately . How differently the same action could impact. I looked in the mirror and—

I AM STANDING IN front of the mirror in the beach house. Mum is putting calamine lotion on my back. I am crying, and she tells me to stay still. But the itching is too bad. Stop it, Enola, just stop it. She smacks me, and I hit my forehead on the corner of the cabinet. The next day she sees the bruise and asks me how it happened. I tell her that I fell in the pool.

T HE MEMORY FINISHED WITH the whirring of a hand dryer in the next-door cubicle. My childhood self was a saboteur presenting a rose-tinted reality the shade of a petal, the kind that she picked from the garden and scrunched into water to make perfume for her mother. I looked at my reflection now, but there was no bruise. I lifted my hand and brought it to my cheek, hitting myself again and again as a saxophone wailed above the toilet. Here you go, Mum, look what I made you.