The Rose Petal Beach (43 page)

‘Love him?’ She turns on me, anger flashing up for the first time. ‘You don’t know him, how can you love him?’

‘Just because I haven’t known him as long as—’

‘Who was the first girl he kissed?’ she cuts in.

‘I–I don’t kno—’

‘Jemmy Tanton, when he was fourteen, down at the local bus station. How many times did his dad put him in hospital?’

‘What? I knew he had a difficult childhood but not that—’

‘Five. How many times has he been arrested, not including the most recent incident?’

‘What? He’s been—’

‘Seven. Once for drunk driving, the other times they did it because he’s a Challey. What’s his middle name?’

‘He doesn’t have—’

‘Keir. After his grandfather, but he tells everyone he doesn’t have one because he hates it.’

‘What would he have wanted to call the baby I miscarried if he’d been a boy?’

The air catches in my chest, it sits there, hard and painful. She had a miscarriage? They went through that together? He never told me. He never told me any of this. ‘I … I don’t—’

‘Kade. And a girl?’

I shake my head. I don’t know. Of course I don’t know.

‘Igrayne. How many times has he been married?’

‘Twice?’ I guess.

‘Once. To me. Do you believe me now? You didn’t love him – the real him – because you don’t know him.’ She stops speaking, returns to looking out of the window. ‘Turns out, neither did I. And I’ve known him more than half my life. More than half his life.’

She’s right, I don’t know him at all. That doesn’t mean I can’t love him. That I didn’t love him. That I don’t love him.

‘You can’t love someone you don’t really know. You fancied him, you were attracted to him, but in the nine years of friendship, you never even scratched the surface of who he was. Admit it: you wanted to have sex with him. It’s allowed, you know, women are allowed to have sex without love. I think you’re deluding yourself that you did it
because
you loved him.’

‘I think you’re deluding yourself that we didn’t have a real connection that led to us being unable to help ourselves.’

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ she says.

What?
‘Don’t patronise me, Tami. You weren’t there, you don’t know what we had.’

‘I said you’re right,’ she repeats.

‘Stop it. I know why you’re being like that.’

‘I’m not being like anything. I don’t want to argue with you. And you’re right, I wasn’t there, I don’t know what it was like.’

‘You’re only saying that because I’m in this hospital bed. If I wasn’t, you’d be tearing strips off me like you were a minute ago.’

‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ she says.

‘Yes you should,’ I try to shout at her, but my throat is sore, dry;
quietening my outrage. ‘Of course you should. I did something terrible and I’m trying to explain why I did it.’

‘You’re not telling the truth, are you though? You’re using all the reasons you used to give yourself permission to do what you did. The truth is, you wanted sex with him. He was with someone else so you had to tell yourself the only reason you would ingratiate yourself with someone to get their husband is because of love. Because love is your “I can do whatever I want” pass, isn’t it? Never mind his wife, he can’t love her, she can’t love him, she can’t be having sex with him so I can move in.’

‘You weren’t having sex with him,’ I remind her.

‘That’s where you’re wrong, he wasn’t having sex with me. I wanted sex but my sex life pretty much came to an end when all Scott wanted was porn sex.’

‘You’re saying he only wanted me for sex, porn sex at that?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘I’m saying I don’t want to talk about this any more. Not with you. Not with anyone.’

‘Now you’re the one not telling the truth. It wasn’t about porn sex, was it? You’re rewriting history to make sense of why he went looking elsewhere.’

Her gaze is unflinching and direct. ‘I liked sex with Scott. It was about intimacy and fun and adventure, and, yes, about expressing our love. And you know what, I would have been happy to try new things. To have explored the kinkier side of sex. But I was never consulted in that. Scott wanted it, and Scott did it. If I didn’t feel comfortable with something, he just sulked and moaned and cold-shouldered me until I gave in. If I didn’t give in, he wouldn’t touch me for weeks – it was sex his way or no way.’ She continues to eviscerate me with her stare. ‘And, maybe it was different with you, maybe he went back to who he was, but you know what, I got tired of being manipulated into trying things that always made me feel dirty and degraded and disgusting.’ She stops, her face momentarily agonised. ‘Did he ask me –
ever
– what I might want to try? Or what my fantasies were? Did I ever get the chance to make
unilateral decisions about our sex life then become unpleasant if I didn’t get what I wanted? No. No. And No. Why would I want to have sex with someone who treats me like a breathing blow-up doll and makes me start to hate sex? I love sex. Just not with Scott any more. And as I refused to be his doll …’

‘He found someone else,’ I finish for her. ‘That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? He found someone else to be his blow-up doll and that someone else was me.’

‘I don’t want to talk about this. You’re supposed to be positive and think about the future. None of this can be doing you any good. This wasn’t the conversation we were meant to have. You were meant to agree to think about telling your mother. But if you don’t want to, you don’t want to. I’ll come and pick you up when they discharge you tomorrow, OK?’

I nod at her, not really listening. She has set me off. Down this road. Down the road of doubting Scott, doubting what he truly felt for me. I heard about their relationship from both sides, but his seemed more plausible for what he was doing, what we were sharing. While hers seemed more plausible, full stop. I dismissed it, though, because Scott was not a terrible man, he wouldn’t lie to get me into bed.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she says, quietly. She is shaken by the conversation, too. She hasn’t spoken of those things before. She has kept them locked inside her, a tainted treasure trove of the things that trashed her marriage.

As she stands and stretches her body, I notice she is still losing weight, still not eating properly or taking care of herself. She used to be curvy, filling all her clothes in all the right ways. She used to have the body shape I always wanted. I loved my body but I often coveted hers. Now there is much less of her, but I can still see the curve of her breasts. They are perfect, complete. She doesn’t have a part of her missing.

‘When was the last time you had sex with him?’ I ask her.

‘I don’t remember,’ she says.

‘I’ll assume it was last week, then,’ I say petulantly.

‘About six months ago.’

He told me over a year ago. He told me there’d only been a slight overlap in him sleeping with both of us. It was a huge overlap. He lied to me.

‘I’ll see you,’ she says.

‘Yeah,’ I reply, wondering now what else he lied about.

Two months ago

‘God, I’ve missed you,’ Scott said to me as soon as he entered my flat, reaching for me. I stepped back, twisting my body away from him and heading for the living room.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked tiredly as he followed me.

‘What’s the matter? How about you and Mirabelle for starters?’

He sighed, heavily, his fingers moving up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

‘And that’s your answer is it?’ I said. ‘Nothing?’

‘Do you really think I’d go near her? Especially when I have you?’

‘I saw your wife three hours ago, she seems convinced,’ I stated.

He became agitated, couldn’t settle, couldn’t sit, pacing the living-room floor, his hands constantly running themselves over his hair, his eyes unable to focus or alight on anything too long. I said nothing, waited for him to calm down and reassure me that it wasn’t the case. ‘If I wanted this shit, I’d go home, talk to my wife,’ he proclaimed.

This was shit?
What did he think was going to happen? That I’d hear all that from her and simply melt into his arms the second he walked through the door? From the sound of the conversation I had with her, she had given him anything
but
shit. Besides, I was not her. Wasn’t that the point?

‘Feel free,’ I said, throwing myself onto the sofa and folding my arms.

He hesitated, shocked and blindsided by my reply. Sometimes,
he obviously forgot who I was. He dropped to his knees, came across the room to me like that, prostrate and contrite.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s such a stressful time.’ He arrived in front of me, took my hands in his and lowered his head to look into my face. ‘Forgive me?’

‘Did you have a fling with Mirabelle?’ I asked him, unwilling to relent until I knew everything.

‘No, for God’s sake! As if I’d go anywhere near her. I told you, didn’t I, that she was hassling me? I told you when I got tough with her she’d say I was sexually harassing her. Not even I could imagine she’d do this.’

‘Why did you say all that stuff then to
her
about you and Mirabelle? It sounded so true.’

‘You know how she is, how she’s so hot on women’s rights. You know she’s more likely to believe Mirabelle than me. And you know Mirabelle’s a man-hating bitch. She’s all but convinced the police I did it. You have to believe me that I never would—’

‘Of course, of course,’ I cut in. ‘I just didn’t know what to think when I’ve got her sobbing her heart out on me.’

‘I know, I know, I feel awful I had to do that to her, but it was the only way to stop myself getting sent down for something I didn’t do.’

‘Do you promise nothing happened between you?’ I sounded like a teenager begging assurances of eternal true love and fidelity from her spotty boyfriend.

‘I swear on the girls’ lives,’ he said.

That caused me to pause, to draw back from him: someone once told me you can always tell a liar by their willingness to swear on someone else’s life.
Especially their children’s.
Craig had done that – sworn on his children’s lives there was no one else – when he left his wife. Scotty wouldn’t do that, though. Only an evil man would do that. I wouldn’t have fallen in love with an evil man.

‘I like your hair,’ he said, reaching up and gently tucking it behind my ear. ‘I knew you’d look amazing as a blonde.’

‘I didn’t do it for you,’ I said, defiantly, again shaving years off myself in the maturity stakes. ‘I did it because I fancied a change.’ As simple as that. He didn’t
own
me, I would never just up and change something as fundamental about myself as my hair colour for a man. I fancied it, so I did it.

‘I know, but I’m glad you tried it. You look incredible.’

‘Don’t look so bad yourself.’

‘God, I missed you,’ he breathed.

‘I missed you, too. That’s why I didn’t like you not texting me.’

‘I didn’t like hearing about you meeting some random man at the airport. Did you fuck him?’

‘No, but I could have.’

His face tightened. ‘Great, how’s that meant to make me feel?’

‘Scotty, when you’re free to sleep next to me every night, and when I know you’re not going to be sleeping next to her for the foreseeable, I’ll stop finding other men to do that with.’

I watched the large mass of his Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallowed, pushing down his jealousy and frustration. ‘We’ll be together soon,’ he said. ‘I promise.’ A salacious grin spread across his face. ‘Now, I think it’s time I checked whether the thatched roof matches the downstairs carpet,’ he said.

In one movement he was upright on his knees. He grabbed me by the hips and pushed me back onto the sofa. I giggled as in another fluid movement he was hitching up my skirt, tugging off my knickers and making love to me with his mouth.

As my orgasm subsided, and I relaxed backwards against my white leather sofa, he shifted to undo his trousers and then his hands were on my hips again, twisting them to turn me over. I knew immediately what he was doing. I didn’t want that. I wanted to enjoy our reunion without
that.
I started to struggle a little, my hands gently pushing at him to stop. Since the baby talk he’d respected what I’d said and had dutifully ‘suited up’ each and every time without prompting – until this time. I continued to gently resist until he paused for a second and stared down at me, begging
me not to be like her, not to let him down by denying him what he wanted. What he wanted was to come inside my body without a condom and without the risk of getting me pregnant.

I stopped pushing, ceased my half-struggle and let him turn me over, giving him silent permission to continue. I was attached to him, I was his, and I desperately wanted his baby. I’d never wanted anyone’s baby before – no, not even my husband’s. That’s why I loved Cora and Anansy so fiercely, they were half his, and if I skipped into the future when we were together properly, they could also be half mine. I wouldn’t convince him we should try for our own baby by fighting him on things like this.

I acquiesced because when you love a man you sometimes do things you don’t especially enjoy or even like to make him happy; to make him stay. And sometimes you stop your struggle for the same reason that I did: I didn’t want to be like her.

I like to come to these appointments with Beatrix.

It’s a strange thing to think but it’s the truth. I like to come because it humbles me by reminding me what life really is. It is the people who sit in the waiting area at the oncology department. It is the woman sitting alone with a small rise of skin where her eyebrows should be, a beige, red and cream floral scarf tied around her head, knotted on the side, the long tail forwards over her shoulder, huge silver hoops at her ears, who has immersed herself in the open book on her lap. It is the man whose skin is weathered, wrinkled and aging even though he does not look much older than me, sitting in silence beside his companion, both of them seemingly lost in thought, but so close their biceps touch. It is the young woman with the pink wig, surrounded by four of her pink-wigged friends, giggling and chatting like they would if they had gathered at someone’s flat for a girls’ night in. It is the woman whose fingers are knitted through her husband’s while they both read on their mobile phones. All of them,
all
of them are what life is. Life is out there, on the street going about daily business, and it is in here, sitting, waiting.