One Moment, One Morning (24 page)

Of course, Steve is one of the worst outlets for hostility. He is not an impassive punchbag, and intoxicated he is not remotely capable of handling her in a mood like this, as experience should have taught Anna well. But she is on a roll. ‘There was hardly anything left in it, and you know I don’t like you having spirits in the house.’

Inevitably, Steve rises to the bait. He gets to his feet. ‘Oh, little Miss Bossy Boots. You don’t like it, do you? I’d forgotten that, what a self-righteous madam you can be.’ He takes a step towards her. Although Anna is tall, he is taller, and broader, and strong from years of manual labour. He is very intimidating.

But Anna is not as threatened as she might – or should – be, were she thinking straight herself; she’s too furious. ‘Don’t be rude to me, Steve.’

‘Don’t be rude to you?’ he mimics. His mouth twists. ‘I’ll be as rude to you as I want to be.’

‘Not in my house, you won’t.’ She knows this will strike a nerve.

‘
Your
house,’ he sneers. ‘That just about says it all, doesn’t it? I thought it was “our” house. Isn’t that what you said to me? “Come and live at my house,
sweetheart
, and we’ll make it ours.”’

‘Oh, give over, Steve.’ Anna goes to hang up her coat, then returns to the kitchen doorway. ‘If you want it to be “our” house then try treating me – and it – with a bit of respect.’ But this holds no sway with Steve. It is not an argument he can follow at present, or is interested in fathoming.

‘You’ve always thought this was your house, haven’t you?’ He is shouting by now. ‘That’s the bloody problem.’ It is true. She bought it long before meeting Steve and he pays her rent; she pays the mortgage. But his contribution is minimal – far less than half, so he does pretty well out of the arrangement. ‘Me? I’m not good enough for you. I’m just the bloody in-house decorator.’

It’s always the same. The inequality between them taps into Steve’s insecurity, which fuels his low self-esteem, and, in turn, his drinking. Only, of course, this hatred doesn’t get directed internally when he is drunk; it spirals out at anyone who gets in the way, like a cluster bomb. More often than not, the chief casualty is Anna.

They have had this row before, which makes it the more tiresome. ‘I invited you to move in before I realized what a drunk you were,’ Anna snaps, and thinks, what a
nasty
drunk. ‘If I’ve changed my tune, you’ve only yourself to blame.’

‘I am NOT drunk!’ Steve yells.

She laughs. It’s ludicrous; he so obviously is.

‘You always say I’m drunk when I’m not.’

She shakes her head, then for want of comment, just spits, ‘Fuck off, Steve.’

A red rag, of course. He comes right up to her, takes her chin in his hands, and, gripping her hard, says, ‘You know what? You’re a cunt.’

She flinches at the word, but he misreads her, thinks she’s recoiling for another reason.

‘Don’t worry. You think I’m going to hit you? Well, I won’t.’

‘I don’t think that, no,’ she says. He’s never hit her yet. The way he towers over her – shoulders braced menacingly, arm muscles taut with anger – is scary. But he has always stopped there, just before actual violence. It is as if he knows that if he ever were to hit her, he would be crossing a line from which he – they – can never return, because while Anna will put up with a lot, she won’t put up with that.

‘You’re a fucking cunt,’ he says again, and punches the wall with his fist.

Anna takes the opportunity to duck out from beneath his arm. At the bottom of the stairs she stops, turns, and says, ‘Steve, just leave it. I’m going to bed.’

‘No, you’re not.’ He tries to grab her, misses. ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk to you.’ She moves up a couple of steps. ‘If you’re not ready to come to bed, I suggest you watch some telly, and go to sleep down there.’

‘TALK TO ME!’ he bellows.

‘I don’t want to. It’s nearly midnight, and I’ve got work tomorrow. I’m tired.’

‘Why won’t you talk to me?’ he wails. She can sense his mood shifting. Sure enough: ‘I love you, Anna.’ Then, grotesquely, madly, he falls to his knees, pleading. The hall floor is quarry tile; it must be painful. ‘I love you!’

Anna doesn’t feel loved, or loving. She feels repelled by him, and is almost inclined to rebuff him completely. But her anger has ebbed, she wants an easy time of it, she needs sleep.

So she says, ‘I love you too, but it’s bedtime.’ And while he is still on his knees, she turns back and mounts the stairs.

As she gets undressed she thinks, there is such a vast gulf between her relationship with Steve, and Karen’s with Simon. The tenderness Lou touched on, that she was able to discern in a few seconds – that’s love, isn’t it? And the caring Karen talked of; she and Simon looked after one another all the time. But Steve had failed Anna earlier, and has failed her again now.

Steve.

Simon.

Similar names. Similar ages. Similar partners, in many ways. They even lived a few hundred yards from one another.

But they are a world apart.

*     *     *

‘I do worry about her, you know.’ Karen hangs up her blouse in the wardrobe.

‘I know you do, love.’ Simon is in bed already, sitting half up, propped by pillows. He leans to turn on the bedside light.

‘Well, at least she’s here tonight. But she’ll go back to him in the morning, I know she will.’

‘She’s a grown woman,’ says Simon.

‘And stubborn.’

‘Call it stubborn if you want. I’d say she knows her own mind.’

‘She’s in love with him, that’s the trouble.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy. But I don’t think he’s good for her.’

‘You’re telling me!’ Karen reaches for her cleanser, scrubs her eye make-up more viciously than usual to remove it.

‘She says he doesn’t hit her. Do you believe her?’

‘I think so.’ Karen steps out of her knickers, unclips her bra, hurls them at the laundry basket. Frustration makes her do it with extra force, but the gesture is futile – they catch in the air and fall short of their destination. She picks them up. ‘But how long before he does?’ She sits down on the edge of the bed, naked, gloomy.

‘If he did, he’d have me to answer to.’

‘I love that you’re so protective of her.’ Karen gives Simon a kiss on the top of his head.

He shifts to reach her, starts to stroke her back. ‘With any luck, it won’t get that far.’

At his touch, Karen relaxes a little. ‘You never know, maybe he’ll get some help.’

‘Maybe . . .’ Simon strokes her some more. ‘I could have a word with him, if you like.’

She turns to look at him. ‘Could you?’

He shrugs. ‘If you think it’ll do any good.’

‘What would you say?’

‘I don’t know. Take him to the pub?’ He chuckles. ‘Tell him man-to-man he has a problem with drink?’

Karen laughs too – going for a couple of beers is Simon’s usual way of befriending men. Then she thinks of her friend, downstairs asleep on the sofa. She knows it has taken a lot for Anna to come over; things must have got pretty bad. ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘On second thoughts, I don’t think talking to him is a good idea. It might have the reverse effect. You’ll make him defensive, and he could behave even worse.’

‘Whatever; I’ll take my lead from you. You’ve been friends such ages, but you know I’m really fond of her too.’

Karen smiles, rueful. ‘I wish I’d never introduced them. But after breaking up with Neil I thought she could do with a boost and I liked Steve at first – he seemed so confident and down to earth. You know what she’s like – give her a weak man and she’ll run rings around him. Neil simply wasn’t strong enough for her. And let’s face it, Steve is very good looking.’

‘He’s nice, too – sober,’ observes Simon. ‘Even I can see that.’

‘Well, yeah, I suppose. That’s half the problem, though, isn’t it? If he weren’t, she wouldn’t give him the time of day. She’s stubborn and proud, but she’s not a complete idiot.’

‘No, she’s not.’

Karen reaches under the pillow for her nightdress, stands up and pulls it on. ‘I guess we’ve done what we can for now. My hunch is this isn’t the first time he’s been vile – I reckon she’s just kept it from us before. But it won’t be the last, either. All we can do is be here for her. It just makes me appreciate how lucky I am having a lovely man like you.’ She gets into bed beside him. ‘Light, hon.’

Simon reaches to turn out his bedside lamp. ‘Spoon me,’ he requests, rolling over onto his side.

It’s not fair, she thinks, snuggling up to the curl of her husband’s back as his breathing slows. Why should I get Simon and Anna get Steve?

But then life’s not fair, is it?

From the way light is bleaching through the curtains, Lou can tell it’s sunny.

Good-oh, she thinks, Friday. No work, no commute, plus today is tennis. She plays throughout the year, weather permitting. And that’s not all – she has the evening to look forward to. She is meeting a new girl!

Lou knows her optimism is irrational. She may not even like this woman, let alone fancy her. But perhaps, this once, she could be lucky. Vic gets on with her; that says a lot. Vic thinks Lou will fancy her; Vic knows Lou’s taste. If she is a director of a web company, she is likely to be bright. Then there is her name.
Sofia
. Lou likes that especially – it seems ripe with potential.

Yet there is a dull ache in the back of her skull, as if her brain has been parched of water.

Stupid me, she berates herself. I had too much wine at Karen’s last night.

Lou knows why she did it, too. She was ‘drinking on feelings’, as they say in counselling; a clumsy expression used to describe often complex behaviour. And how stupid of her, when it even advised not to use alcohol like that in the list she gave Karen. But she’d been keen not to say the wrong thing, needed to relax and hadn’t kept track as she would usually. Lou is not a big drinker, generally, so it doesn’t take much before she feels the effects.

Ah, well, she decides. There’s nothing else for it: best get busy. I’m out again tonight and may well drink then too – knowing Vic, we are sure to – so I need to get rid of one headache before acquiring another.

She throws back the covers, goes into the living room and opens the curtains. Sun streams in through her window, clear, bright, forcing her to squint.

She can see the old man opposite, looking out of his attic window too. He’s there every morning at this time, drinking tea from a cup and saucer – the street is so narrow he can’t be more than twenty feet away. His hair is uncombed, wispy, forming long, mad cobwebs like a character from a fairy tale, and he is still in his paisley pyjamas, which are buttoned wrong, asymmetric. She waves, but his eyesight is not good, and he doesn’t see her. She’s chatted to him, though, in the nearby newsagent on their street corner. He’s lived in the same flat for over forty years, and there is something about this that pleases Lou. It might be wishful thinking, but she has a hunch he’s gay, and she likes to think he has been there since the early days; she fondly imagines him being a homosexual crusader in the 1960s, coming to an area that was rougher round the edges, then. Whatever his persuasion, he is fragile and solitary now; she supposes he doesn’t participate in much fraternizing these days.

Looking down at the street, Lou can see that the seagulls have been busy. Brighton’s dustmen fight a losing battle against them, and today the birds have got into a couple of bags of rubbish, ripping them open and scattering debris. Briefly Lou is annoyed and wishes people would dispose of their waste in the communal bins. There always seems to be something left out on the pavement – a half-eaten take-away, old furniture, a rusting bike with bent wheels – but the city has such an itinerant population that many local residents don’t seem to know what the collection arrangements are, or care.

Then she reminds herself that the mess, the scruffiness, the couldn’t-care-less-ness, is all part of Brighton’s rich but well-worn tapestry. And let’s face it, she has it better than most. For there, twinkling at her from down the end of the street, is the sea. It is flat beneath a clear blue sky; a stripe of deepest azure at the horizon, paler by the shingle, so there can’t be much wind. A perfect day. If Karen’s bereavement has clarified anything for Lou, it is to be thankful for small blessings.