Untouchable (8 page)

‘Is that all you’re going to have?’ I ask.

She grimaces. ‘I’m trying to lose some weight. I can hardly get into my old work clothes and I can’t afford new stuff.’ She picks over the green leaves, flicking something to the side of her plate. ‘Christ, I hate fucking capers.’

I lean over, spear a couple with my fork and pop them in my mouth. Replace them with a few of my basil gnocchi.

Rachel looks sheepish but grateful. ‘Hang on …’ She fishes into her bag and pulls out an envelope. ‘Before I forget. I’ve got this for you.’

‘It’s a bit late for Christmas cards,’ I say, a subtle dig. She refused to send any this year – said it was a waste of paper.

‘Just open it.’

I slide a finger under the tab to break the seal and pull out a heavily embossed piece of white card.

‘She wasn’t sure where to send it so she gave it to me,’ Rachel says as I examine the elaborately curlicued script. An invitation to Jane’s wedding. Jane Transom – our old flatmate at university.

‘So Clive finally got round to asking her then?’

‘I think she ended up asking him,’ Rachel laughs. ‘After eight years living together, he had the good sense not to refuse.’

‘Are you going?’

Her mirth subsides into a frown. ‘Of course. We’re leaving the kids with Mum.’

I scan the invitation. A church in rural Hertfordshire with the reception at Shaldcott Manor. The full works, by the look of it. I check the date – only a few weeks away. ‘Not much notice, is it?’ I say.

Rachel’s cheeks flush and I read between the lines. Clearly Jane thought twice before inviting me. ‘I’m not sure I can …’ I begin, but no plausible excuse follows in its wake.

Rachel eyes me with a serious expression. ‘C’mon, Grace, you should come.’

I swallow. Picture all the people who’ll be there. Everyone who’ll know me and what … I pull my mind away.

‘You will come, won’t you?’ Rachel’s tone is more insistant. ‘Jane will be disappointed if you don’t. Really.’

She would? Somehow I find that hard to believe. Not after what happened. After all, no one except Rachel has bothered to keep in touch since our university days.

‘I’ll try.’ I put the card back into the envelope and slip it into my bag. Steer the conversation into safer waters. But the meal feels rushed, Rachel checking the time regularly. It seems no time at all before she stands and drags on her coat, reaching in her bag for her purse.

I shake my head. ‘Like I said. My treat.’

Rachel gives me a grateful smile. ‘And I meant what I said, Grace. Come and see us soon, get away from here for a few days. It’ll do you good.’ A meaningful look as she slings the strap of her bag over her head.

‘I promise,’ I say, trying to convince myself I mean it, and stand to give her a hug. She clutches me tightly then steps back. Raises a gloved hand to my face.

‘We still love you, you know.’

She holds her hand there for a moment. I lean forward and squeeze her to me again, blinking.

‘Take care,’ Rachel says with emphasis as she turns to leave.

I watch her retreat into the London night. Sit down and finish my glass, wondering why I feel so abandoned. The waitress approaches with the bill. I give her my credit card, and as she moves away I see the man from the bar hovering behind her.

‘I wanted to ask if you’d like to join me for a drink?’ His smile the right side of hopeful. Up close he looks more attractive, a faint stubble line lending an appealing ruggedness to his features.

I weigh up my options. A night alone in front of the telly – or accept his offer. Suddenly the siren call of the sofa doesn’t seem so sweet.

11

Saturday, 14 February

I’m there again. In that dismal flat, cold grey sky barely visible through naked windows. Beneath me the bare mattress, one spring digging into my shoulder as the weight of his body pins me down. The stale sour smell of the air in the room, the musky scent of skin and sweat as he pushes into me, hard and relentless, hurting, and I’m wondering how I can possibly be here again, after everything, how I could have repeated that mistake, and I’m crying with shame because I’m here again and it’s terrible, always so terrible, and now I know I’m never, ever going to be able to leave …

I wake with a gasp. Disorientated, my cheeks damp with tears. I raise my head and look around, heart racing.

Where am I?

Dark curtains, the gap between revealing the faintest sliver of orange street light. Enough to see I’m in a double bed, half covered by the duvet. Beside me a man, asleep, face turned away.

Memory seeps in. The guy from the restaurant. Not Michael, I realize with a rush of relief, the dregs of my nightmare lingering in some recess of my mind. I slow my breathing.

Calm down, Grace. It’s not him, and you’re not there. It’s over.

Lifting my head again, I peer back towards the window. What time is it, I wonder. Not yet light, so five, maybe six? I calculate my hours of sleep – no more than four, at the most. Oh God.

I lie still, unmoving, letting the minutes slip by. Somewhere outside, I make out the faint sound of birdsong. The first rumble of traffic. Inside, closer, an intermittent clunking noise as the heating kicks in.

Not that early then. Seven, perhaps?

The man beside me stirs. Mutters something from a dream. I strain to remember his name; he must have told me. I wonder which one I gave him – Stella or Grace?

I lift the duvet carefully. I can only see his shoulders, the curve of the spine down to the dark cleft of his arse. For a moment I’m tempted to wake him, to have him embrace me, kiss away my morning breath. Let him run a hand between my thighs before slipping inside me and fucking all the bad thoughts out of my head.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t wake. How come men can always bloody sleep?

Christ, I need a cigarette.

I stare up at the ceiling, a tide of anxiety threatening to overwhelm me. I have to get up. I slide my legs over the side of the bed, but even the effort of sitting ignites my hangover, leaving me dizzy and nauseous.

Too much of everything, I acknowledge, flashing back to the night before. To the bar. To the club. The coke, the pot. The fumbled hasty sex when we finally tumbled into bed.

Too fucking much of everything. And always the price to pay in the morning.

Tears well again. I blink them away. No point, Grace, I tell myself as I rise unsteadily to my feet. No fucking point at all.

I don’t turn on the light in the bathroom, reluctant now to wake him. Unable yet to bear the strain of communication. Groping for the loo, I lower the seat and pee – there’s not much, probably beer-brown with dehydration. I daren’t flush afterwards. I pull on the dressing gown hanging on the back of the door and turn the tap on low. Splash water on my face, thankful it’s too dark to catch sight of myself in the mirror.

A heave in my stomach. I lean on the sink, breathing hard.

Oh, please, don’t let me be sick.

Gradually the nausea ebbs away. I locate the kitchen and close the door behind me. Switch on the light. The room is tiny – compact, an estate agent would say. A line of units, a fridge and a stove.

My spirits lift a little when I spot the expensive coffee maker. I open a few cupboards, find half a packet of ground arabica. Fill the machine and stand there, watching it dribble into the flask, its busy gurgling somehow a small shred of comfort. Pour myself a cup, then reconsider.

Give him a chance, Grace.

I fill a second mug and take it into the bedroom, placing it on his bedside table. The man whose name I still can’t remember blinks, opens his eyes. His complexion is blotchy, his stubble more pronounced. But he’s not bad, even in the harsh daylight now percolating into the room.

‘I made you some coffee.’

He mumbles thanks, pulls himself up into a semi-reclining position. Looks at me briefly before shutting his eyes again. ‘You OK?’

‘Fine,’ I lie. ‘Thank you.’

I stand there for a few seconds. Graphic designer, I remember now. Recently broken up from a long-term relationship. My body recalls his mouth on my nipple, hot and eager. The feel of him inside me, the little gasp he made when he came.

‘You’re welcome to use the shower,’ he says, not opening his eyes.

My cue to leave.

I stare at him briefly, re-evaluating the night before. Definitely a rebound fuck.

I dress, not bothering with the shower. Find my bag in the living room, by the side of the sofa. Hunt through it, fingers groping into every corner of the lining. Please God. I turn up three ibuprofen. Go back into the kitchen and pour myself another inch of coffee and swallow them one by one.

It’s then I see the calendar on the wall. And the date. The fourteenth of February.

Happy fucking Valentine, Grace.

Swilling my mug under the tap, I dry it with a tea towel and replace it on the shelf. Like I was never here at all. Then pull on my coat and let myself out, closing the door to the flat softly behind me.

I don’t bother with goodbye.

12

Saturday, 14 February

‘God, I’ve missed you.’

Roy traces a finger from the hollow of my breastbone down to my belly button, where it pauses, waiting for my response.

‘It’s been a while.’ I keep my voice non-committal.

He smiles, but his eyes betray his disappointment. Poor old Roy. Always hoping for more. My gaze flicks to the card on my chest of drawers. A cutesy teddy bear holding a red heart-shaped balloon with ‘Be My Valentine’ printed across the front.

Jesus. A shift of guilt inside me. I hate feeling I’m leading someone on, even when I’m not. And I have made it clear, as firmly and kindly as I can, that this is just what it is.

‘Issues at home.’ Roy clears his throat. ‘Big fuss about my daughter’s wedding. I couldn’t get away till it was all over.’

Roy lives somewhere in the Home Counties. The kind of place where women like me exist only in the pages of the
Daily Mail
. I’m his treat, his dirty little secret, possibly his sole indiscretion in an otherwise ordinary, irreproachable life.

‘Did it go well?’ I ask.

He gazes at me. He’s had a recent haircut, I notice. It makes his bald patch more pronounced.

‘Your daughter’s wedding,’ I prompt.

‘Ah. Yes. You know, the usual.’ He flushes slightly and looks away, as if he’s made some kind of faux pas.

‘You’re not keen on him then? Your son-in-law?’

He presses his thin lips into a line. ‘No, it’s not that. He’s a nice enough chap, a doctor. Neurologist, I think – something like that. It’s more that … you know … you so desperately want them to be happy and …’

He pauses. Regroups. ‘The whole marriage thing isn’t easy.’

I turn on to my back. My sense of smell seems heightened somehow, and Roy’s aftershave is almost unbearably strong. I study the ceiling, still feeling a little queasy.

‘Yes, I know. I was married once.’

‘You were?’ Roy’s expression is incredulous. I wonder briefly if I should be insulted.

‘Seven years,’ I say.

Why am I even telling him this? I close my eyes. It must be the dregs of my hangover. Or last night’s encounter, already leaving the stain of regret.

‘Seven years,’ he repeats.

I reopen my eyes and turn to face Roy. He still looks faintly shocked. Or perhaps merely surprised.

Too much detail, I scold myself, aware I can’t afford to get complacent. Clients don’t like having their idea of you shattered – even clients as devoted as Roy. Most prefer to believe you have absolutely nothing in common with their wives.

‘So what happened?’ he asks, and I can tell by his tone that he really wants to know. And seeing he cares somehow makes me feel worse.

‘I screwed it up.’ I try to sound upbeat. Obviously fail miserably, because his expression turns sympathetic, his hand reaching across to mine.

‘It takes two, though, Stella, to screw up a marriage.’

I return his gaze. ‘Not in this case.’

I say it quickly but it’s too late. My mind seizes on an image of my husband’s face after the police had dropped me home, his appalled, shell-shocked expression when I broke down and told him what had happened.

A good marriage. A sane and useful life. Wiped out in one afternoon.

I blink hard, squeezing away the memory. See Roy open his mouth to say something, then close it again. Knowing not to push things too far.

‘So,’ I say, as brightly as I can manage, ‘how’s it going at Twickers?’ It’s our joke, rugby being the standard excuse Roy gives for being here; though I do wonder how he makes this stick out of season.

‘I’m much more interested in the state of play here,’ he chuckles, his hand lowering itself to my breast, his face taking on an intense look that tells me he’s had enough of conversation.

I manage a surreptitious glance at the clock on the bedside table. Only ten to three. Oh God, another two hours and ten minutes to go. Which might be fine with a man not well into his sixties. A man still up for doing it a couple of times in a row. But even with the aid of the little blue pills the GP prescribes for Roy, twice would be a stretch too far.

So we need to make this one last. My heart sinks. All I want right now is to let my head droop on to the pillow and sleep off the aftermath of last night.

Consequences, Grace. There’s always consequences.

I turn to Roy and smile, but he doesn’t notice. He’s distracting himself with my nipple, twirling it in his fingers like a radio dial. I can’t even be bothered to pretend it’s erotic, just let him fiddle away while my thoughts drift to that place in my head where no one can follow.

A narrow bed in a bright whitewashed room.

A single stone cottage.

An island surrounded by sea.

Nothing to see beyond except grass and cliff, rock and sky. Nothing to hear but the wind, and the steady, rhythmic pounding of waves on the rocks below.

13

Thursday, 19 February

The doctor peers up at me from behind the speculum. ‘Rather a lot of inflammation up round your cervix, Miss Thomas. Looks like you may have picked up a mild infection.’