Into the Darkest Corner (5 page)
After Saturday, it felt as if I saw Stuart all the time. When I left for work on Monday morning, he was leaving for work too. He looked badly in need of a shave and several more hours’ sleep.
“Morning, Cathy,” he said, when he saw me.
“Hi,” I said. “You off to work?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Feels like I only just got in, but apparently I’ve been asleep since then.”
I watched him as he gave me a halfhearted little wave, then closed the door behind me, pulling it to and checking it by giving it a rattle. I stood outside the door for a moment, giving him a chance to disappear up the street and around the corner, before I checked it myself. It was closed. It was definitely closed. I checked it again.
On Tuesday I heard him coming up the stairs just after eleven. Even his footsteps sounded exhausted. I wondered what job he did that was so pressured.
This morning, he opened the front door just as I was checking the door of my flat. I heard him coming up the stairs behind me but kept on checking until the last minute; I was late as it was.
“Good morning,” he said brightly, “how are you today?”
He looked much better.
“I’m fine. How are you? Aren’t you going the wrong way?”
He smiled. “Me? No. It’s my day off today. I’ve just been to the deli to get some croissants.” He held up the shopping bag in case I needed proof of where he’d been. “I’m going to slob around and eat too much. Don’t suppose you’d like one?”
I must have looked aghast for a minute, because he smiled and said, “I guess you’re on your way to work, though . . .”
“Yes,” I said, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Another time—maybe.”
He smiled again and gave me a cheeky wink. “I might hold you to that.” He looked past me. “Your door okay?”
“My door?”
“Doesn’t it shut properly?”
I still had my hand on the doorknob. “Oh—yes. It—it just sticks a little sometimes, that’s all.” I gave it a tug.
Look, just go—please
—I was saying in my head, but he wasn’t taking the hint. In the end I had to say good-bye and leave the flat door unchecked.
Although a small compensation was that, since Stuart had moved in, I hadn’t found the front door unlocked once.
I spent the whole of the next day in a state of excitement, reliving the best moments of the night before, agonizing over when he might phone—would he ever phone? And what would I say to him if he did?
In the end, he called that afternoon, when I was just about to leave work.
“Hi, it’s me. Did you have a good day?”
“Well, you know—I was at work. I’ve still got your jacket.”
He laughed a little. “Yes. Don’t worry about that. Give it to me when you see me.”
“And when might I expect that to be?”
“As soon as possible,” he said, his voice suddenly quite serious. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all day.”
I thought for a moment. “This weekend?”
A pause on the other end of the line. “I can’t this weekend, I’m working. And besides, I can’t wait that long. How about tonight?”
Christmas party last night.
I feel as though something has shifted in my life. For the worse, of course—just as I was starting to feel safer here, too. This morning I feel unsteady on my feet, and it’s nothing to do with any alcohol I did or didn’t drink last night. Truth be told, I haven’t drunk alcohol for more than a year—I don’t think I could handle it these days.
No: this morning the ground feels different under me, as though it might collapse at any moment. I’ve been checking the flat more or less constantly since I got up at four, and each time I had to hold on to the walls as I worked my way through the routine. I’m still not happy with it. I think I shall have to go and check it again in a moment.
Last night, I summoned up all my courage and went out. I started preparing for it early. In the old days, getting ready for a night out would have meant a shower, at least half an hour choosing a dress and shoes, doing my makeup and hair while drinking glasses of cold white wine, receiving and replying to texts from my friends.
What u wearing tonight? No wear the blue one. See you later.
These days, preparing to go out means checking everything. Checking again. Then once more because I only started it at one minute past the hour. Then again because it took two minutes’ less time than it should have done. From the minute I got in from work last night until it was time to go, I was checking.
It was ten to eight by the time I made it out of the front door, which was a huge relief.
Already I’d missed the visit to the pub, but I’d be able to catch up with them—maybe they’d be walking to the restaurant by now. Mentally rehearsing my excuses for being late, I quickened my pace up toward High Street when I saw Stuart coming toward me. Despite the dark, and the fact that I was wrapped up in a long black coat with a scarf wrapped around my neck, he saw me too.
“Hello, Cathy. You off for a night out?” He had a dark brown jacket on, some sort of university scarf under that. His breath came in clouds.
I didn’t want to speak to him. I wanted to nod and give a vague smile, but he was blocking the sidewalk ahead of me. “Yes,” I said. “Work Christmas party.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I’ve got one of those next week. Might see you out later; I’m meeting some friends.”
“That would be nice,” I found myself saying, as though some sort of autopilot had taken over.
He gave me a warm smile. “See you later, then,” he said, and let me pass.
I felt him watching me as I walked away. I couldn’t decide whether this was a good thing or not. Before, it had been a bad thing to be watched like that. I’d felt eyes on me all the time in the last few years, it was a feeling I could never seem to shake. But this time it felt different. It felt safe.
I wasn’t as late as I’d thought, because the office crowd was still busy having drinks, in a bar called Dixey’s. The place was busy even though it was still early, and the girls from work were already half-drunk, loud and excited and wearing next to nothing. I must have looked like their chaperone, their maiden aunt, wearing my chicest black pants and gray silk shirt. It was well cut, but hardly revealing. And not very festive.
Caroline, the finance manager, seemed to feel the need to keep me company for most of the evening. Maybe she felt a bit out of it, too. She was the only married one, older than me by a few years with three children. Her hair was graying, like mine, but she’d done the decent thing and dyed it one of those chocolate-brown colors, with some reddish highlights. All I could bring myself to do was cut mine short, in a monthly ordeal at the hairdresser, the only one I could find who didn’t talk to me while she cut my hair.
At least Caroline didn’t ask me too many questions. She was happy enough telling me stuff, which I was only partly taking in. There was more to Caroline than that, however. I didn’t believe she was one for inane chatter. I think she knew that I was struggling in this environment, and if she asked me how I was, or if I was all right, I might just fall apart.
So, when we got to the Thai Palace I sat at the end of the long table, and Caroline sat opposite me. She probably thought that I just wanted to sit away from the noise, but in reality being trapped in the middle of a long table in a densely occupied restaurant was a frightening place to be. At the end, nearest to the door, one eye on the fire exit marked at the back, I could see everyone who came in through the door, before they saw me. I could hide.
In the meantime, the girls were talking more loudly than I thought necessary and laughing at things that, surely, weren’t funny and never had been. They were all slender gangly arms and huge earrings and razor-straight shiny hair. I’d never been like that—had I?
Robin was certainly enjoying himself, sandwiched between Lucy and Diane, directly across the table from Alison’s impressive cleavage. He had one of those laughs that grated on me, and tonight he was louder than ever. I thought he was an odious man, with a shiny face and gelled hair, damp hands and a red, full mouth. He had that swagger of arrogance that only ever comes from low self-esteem. Nevertheless he wasn’t afraid to wave his money around, and he could be very attentive. The girls all loved him.
He’d hit on me, once, not long after I’d started. Cornered me in the photocopy room and asked me if I’d like to meet him for a drink after work. Despite the panic I managed to smile, and say, “No, thanks.” I didn’t want to appear too chilly, but I obviously had, because the next thing I heard was the rumor that I was gay. That one made me smile. I guess the short hair and lack of makeup might have backed up that idea. Well, it suited me fine—at least that might put some of the pushy sales reps off.
Before the main course, but after yet another round of drinks, the Secret Santa sack came out and, needless to say, Robin was more than happy to be the center of attention and play Santa.
He had a body that suggested he used to work out once upon a time but now preferred to restrict his exercise to a stroll around the golf course once or twice a week. I guess if you could ignore his voice and his laugh it might be possible to think of him as good-looking. Caroline had told me in a low voice that he was seeing Amanda, one of the reps, and that his marriage was in trouble. This didn’t come as a surprise.
Seeing Amanda didn’t seem to be stopping him from flirting, I noticed, and he was having a good old go at both the girls on either side of him—one of whom was young enough to be his daughter. She was looking at him shyly and I wondered whether she was going to find herself in some hotel room with him later on.
My Secret Santa present lay unopened on my place mat. It was beautifully wrapped, which was a good sign. For a moment I wondered whether someone had bought me something crude, which would be quite funny, but the wrapping didn’t really do that justice. I would just have to open it.
All around the table, whoops and shouts and laughter mingled with the noise of paper being torn. Someone had given Caroline a bottle of red wine—not very original, but she looked pleased enough.
The second the wrapping had been pulled aside, I wished with my whole heart I hadn’t opened it at all.
It was a pair of handcuffs, lined with a pink fluffy material, and a red satin camisole top.
My heart was pounding, for the wrong reasons. I looked around the table and, at the far end, Erin was looking back at me anxiously—it must have been her. I smiled as best I could, mouthed, “Thank you,” and folded the items carefully back into the wrapping paper, tucking it under my chair.
I don’t know which of those two things set it off. The red satin top was beautiful, well made, and it would have fit me perfectly. Maybe it wasn’t that—maybe it was the—other things.
“You okay?” Caroline asked. Her face was pink and she was starting to slur her words a little. “You’re white as a sheet.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
A few moments later I slipped away to the ladies’ room, the Secret Santa package halfheartedly stuffed into the top of my bag. Pushing through the double doors, I noticed my hand was shaking. Fortunately there was nobody in there. I went into the stall first, rested my hands lightly on the back of the door, trying to breathe, trying to calm down. My heart was beating so fast there seemed to be nothing but thudding.
I pulled the package out of my bag. The wrapping paper meant at least I didn’t have to touch it, and the contents hadn’t touched the inside of my bag, just the paper. Still shaking, I lifted the whole lid off the sanitary bin and, wrinkling my nose at the sudden stink, shoved the package inside.
The relief was small, but instant. I retrieved my handbag and flushed the toilet, just as the door opened and three young girls came in, laughing and talking loudly about some guy called Graham and what a shit he was. I washed my hands while they busied themselves in the stalls, shouting at each other and laughing. Washed them again. Washed them a third time. When all three toilets flushed simultaneously and the doors unlocked, I dried my hands on a paper towel and left them to it.
The rest of the meal was all right. Once the food arrived and I had something to do, I think I calmed down a little. Everyone was happy and busy talking, which meant I could watch the other diners and look out of the window.
High Street was busy, with groups of people passing in front of the window heading to one of the pubs or restaurants, most of them happy and laughing. After a while I realized I was scanning the faces looking for Stuart. That was no good. I turned back to the table and tried my hardest to get involved in the conversation.
When the meal was over, I had been intending to sneak off and get back home as soon as I could, but that didn’t quite happen.
“Come for a drink,” Caroline said, “go on—just for one. We’re going to the Lloyd George. Don’t leave me on my own with all the kiddos.” She had her arm through mine, and was steering me away from Talbot Street and home. I let her steer me. I don’t know why. Part of me just felt like fighting the urges tonight. I wanted to remember what it felt like to be free.
The Lloyd George was warm and, unlike the other pubs, not completely full. This place had once been a theater, and the high ceilings and balcony running around the top gave the place a bright, open feel. I got myself an orange juice and stood with Caroline near the bar while she rattled on about her trip to Florida and how cheap the petrol had been. I saw Stuart before he saw me, but only just before—he caught me looking at him and before I had a chance to look away he’d smiled, said something to the guy he was with, and come over.
“Hello, Cathy,” he said, shouting above the loud clamor of conversation, “are you having a good night?”
“Yes,” I replied, “you?”
He grimaced. “Better now you’re here. I was dying of boredom talking to Ralphie.” He pointed his beer bottle in the direction of his previous companion, a geeky-looking guy wearing glasses and a scarf of an indiscriminate brown, who was now pretending to be involved in a conversation to his right.
“Someone you work with?” I asked.
He laughed. “My baby brother.” He took a swig from the bottle. “How’s the Christmas do?”
“Not bad. Long time since I went out for a meal.” Stupid thing to say, I thought. The trouble was, this frightened person wasn’t me. I was used to making conversation with people. I was vivacious, friendly, talkative. Keeping my mouth shut was always a struggle. I wondered if I would ever get used to it.
Robin’s hooting laughter rose above the general throng, and Stuart cast him a glance. “Is he with you?”
I nodded, raising my eyes. “He’s an arse,” I said.
There was a moment’s pause where we both wondered what on earth to say next.
“So,” he said at last, tilting his head in the direction of Talbot Street, “you lived here long?”
“A year or so.”
He nodded. “I like that house. Feels like home already.”
I found myself smiling at him. His green eyes were regarding me, a boyish sparkle to them—it had been a long time since I’d met anyone with that sort of enthusiasm. “Good.”
Above the racket I heard someone shout “Stu!” and we both turned to see Ralphie at the door, beckoning him on. He returned a salute.
“I’d better go,” he said.
“Right.”
“Might see you later?” he asked.
A few years ago the answer to this question would have been an automatic yes. I’d be out all night, moving from one drinking hole to another, meeting friends, leaving some of them behind in one place and meeting up with them again in another, moving from pub to club to bar without a care in the world. Seeing someone later could mean just that, or it could mean making out in some doorway, staggering home and fucking them all night, before waking up the next day with a blinding headache and an urgent need to throw up.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll probably be heading home in a minute.”
“Want me to wait? I’ll walk you home.”
I tried to see from his eyes whether he meant that, whether he was prepared to walk me home to see me safely to the front door, or if he meant he wanted to walk me home and then see what happened.
“Thanks,” I said, “but I’ll be fine. It’s not exactly far. You go and have a good time. I’ll see you soon.”
He hesitated for a moment, then gave me a smile, leaned over me slightly to put his empty bottle down on the bar, and followed Ralph out into the night.
“That your boyfriend?” said Caroline, turning back from the bar.
I shook my head.
“Shame,” she said, “he’s nice. And obviously fancies the pants off you.”
“You think?” I asked, wondering if that was a good thing or not.
She nodded vigorously. “I can always tell these things. The way he was looking at you. Who is he, then?”
“Lives in the flat upstairs,” I said. “His name’s Stuart.”
“Well,” she said, “I’d get in there if I were you. Before someone else does.”
I watched the others as they debated where the rest of the night would take them. They were arguing over getting a cab and going straight to the West End, or whether to have one more drink in the Red Lion, because apparently Erin had a bit of a thing for one of the barmen in there. Either way, I wasn’t going with them. And I definitely wasn’t going anywhere near the Red Lion. That one had people on the door.
