Is this love, p.11
Is This Love?, page 11
I wasn’t sure if there was some part of me that wanted to remain alive, or if I was just too scared of what would happen if I tried to die.
I suppose that I admitted defeat.
Slowly, I lifted my head off the table and sat upright. In time, I pulled myself up and stood over the cooker. And later still I started moving: slowly, panting, putting one thing after another in a sheath of newspaper and then into a box. And then sealing, labelling, stacking. I kept going.
I was going slowly… but I was going.
Around noon, I realised I hadn’t eaten since Thursday night. I had had only beer for fuel, and now it was Saturday lunchtime and my body was protesting. Part of me was pleased. I was too broken to eat, which evidenced my torment: food was a mere frippery. I was miserable and, clearly, melodramatic.
I hadn’t thought to look in the fridge, and when I did I realised that – in spite of myself – I was hungry. The fridge, though, was of no help, containing only some mangy tomatoes, old cheese… and a small bottle of cherryade. I felt overwhelmed by the idea of cooking anyway, so decided to order takeout. I didn’t need to eat much; one meal today should see me through the whole process. But I should get something substantial so I didn’t have to worry about it again. And alcohol. I needed to drink.
I tossed the cherryade bottle in the bin, and opened the Just Eat app on my phone. A pizza would be plenty to last me through the weekend.
Except I couldn’t do it. I just could not decide which place to go with, which combination of toppings I wanted, which price deal was the best. I paralysed myself trying to figure out how to order something that I would like without paying for delivery charges. As if it mattered. I simply could not make a decision. And the longer it went on the more I felt like a hopeless loser. Who can’t make a decision about a fucking pizza? An eight-year-old would have sorted it in a heartbeat. It took me almost an hour.
I finally placed my order then walked out to the shop on the corner where I bought six beers and two bottles of wine. It felt like an achievement, to have restocked with food and drink. I considered how pathetic I’d become. I wondered what you’d think if you saw me in that moment, shuffling down the road with a plastic bag of clinking bottles. I could guess. You’d said enough times that you didn’t like it when I drank, that I needed to be better at looking after myself. I’d always taken it as a signal of your care, being concerned for how I was. I saw it now as just another of your systems for controlling me.
I carried on packing, getting on with the kitchen stuff, taking out cutlery and bowls and gadgets we never used but I wasn’t willing to leave behind for you. It was time-consuming. There was a lot of wrapping and reorganising and fitting in of odd shapes to make the most of the box space. But I got back on track, and started to work with purpose again. There was still so much to get through.
I worked my way to the far side of the kitchen where your Kitchen-Aid stood in pride of place on the counter. The first real thing I’d ever bought you. I’d been so skint I’d paid for it on a credit card I had no hope of paying off. I didn’t, for years. But you wanted one, you’d told me, so I got it for you and watched like a big kid as you’d unwrapped it and grinned and knocked me back off my haunches with your kisses.
I pulled it towards the edge of the work surface. It had seen better days, and was a bit temperamental now, sometimes coming on when you pressed the power button, sometimes not. It was broken anyway, I thought as I pulled it off the surface and watched as it hit the floor. It was really heavy. It made a pretty impressive sound on impact.
I stood over it like a murderer, wanting to make sure it was broken. Being careful to finish the job. A couple of small pieces had fallen away, but the bulk of it remained intact. So I lifted it over my head – I was amazed, even in the moment, that I had the strength to do it – and smashed it back onto the kitchen floor. The front section came completely apart, and there were gratifyingly large bits of plastic and metal now, littering the floor. Good, I thought. I was glad. I had taken something from you. It was tiny recompense for all you had taken from me.
And then something in me snapped. There was our sideboard at the far side of the room, adorned with framed pictures and a row of your coloured glass vases. More of these stood on the windowsills, where you’d put them to make the most of the sun shining through the lilacs and reds and greens of their glass bodies. You’d collected them over the years, adding to the range of colours and shapes and putting them out, pride of place, around the room. One by one, I picked them up and threw them across the full width of the flat, watching as they hit the grey stone of the fireplace, or the black tiles of the hearth, and shattered into pieces. It took a few minutes to break them all. The noise was immense, it took me by surprise. But it was so satisfying. It was freeing, fleetingly, to behave as badly as I could. To do something unhinged, mad, dangerous – all the things you said I was.
It also meant there was less to pack.
I hadn’t lost my sense of humour after all.
The pizza arrived shortly after, and I ate a couple of pieces before refocusing on the packing. It was late afternoon by now. I had heard my phone ping a number of times, and knew people would be trying to get me out, to meet them somewhere for New Year’s celebrations. I had no intention of responding. I was glad I had something to do, for now, that took my mind off the date, the hour. The thought of seeing in a new year that you wouldn’t be a part of crushed me. I would carry on my work here, and go to bed before midnight. It was, just about, manageable.
Around 7 p.m. the buzzer went. I looked around the flat, which was in chaos. There were boxes and bags everywhere, furniture pulled out of place, and over by the fireplace a multi-coloured puddle of broken glass. I swore quietly, and considered not answering. It buzzed again, and I moved to the tiny video monitor at the top of the stairs to see who was there. If it had been one of my friends, I would have stayed still and silent until they left. But it was our neighbour, one of the beautiful couple who lived next door, smiling into the camera. They weren’t part of our circle. This distance made it feel better, safer. So I buzzed her in and waited at the top of the stairs as she made her way up.
Oh my god, she said. Are you… packing? Are you OK? She had a four-pack of beers in her hand, and offered me one. Can I stay and have a drink with you? I nodded and cleared some room for us at the kitchen table, dropping my eyes as hers took in the chaos and the damage. I saw her scan across the smashed glass, the stacks of boxes, the torn paper and tape and plastic. Gallantly, she looked away.
I heard that you were separating; I saw her the other day and she told me. But this is all so fast. What happened?
I said I didn’t know, not really. I told her you weren’t speaking to me, she’d probably heard more about it from you than I had. I showed her the letter from your lawyers and watched the shock on her face. It was a comfort to see someone else so confused by it all. She spoke to me gently, asking what I’d been doing these past few weeks. Not prying, just concerned. I liked her a lot, and her partner. I’d been first to befriend them, and although you’d been typically aloof at first, we’d had fun with them over the years we’d spent as neighbours. Late nights of drinking, home-cooked dinners, doing errands for one another. I was glad she’d come round. I’d been feeling terribly lonely. This was better.
After a while she mentioned that they were having a party next door – just a small thing, family and a few friends from out of town. A quiet affair, she promised. Would I come? She didn’t want to leave me here in this mess, not on New Year’s. I found out later that Nancy had put her up to the whole thing, had been scared of my being alone this night, and had known I wouldn’t answer the door to one of our group. A good friend after all. The best.
The beers inside me made it easier to say yes. I was tired, anyway. And I’d got through enough of the packing that I knew I’d get it all done before the van arrived the day after tomorrow. I had the whole of New Year’s Day to sit in this chaos. So I followed her out of the flat and across to their place, and braced myself as she opened the door.
I wondered, then, what you were doing. You’d be at your sister’s, of course. I considered that for a moment and felt a flash of anger, remembering the painful, endless weekends at her stripped-brick-interior, over-styled Clapton townhouse. You told me early on that she’d once been a stylist to some nineties fashion photographer, although you needn’t have bothered. She never stopped referencing her heady Soho years. The tedious stories of snorting lines and running wild, delivered while she chopped out fresh white tracks to keep the conversation going. To keep her conversation going. The rest of us never got a look-in.
She was a liar, like you. She would make plans and bail on them at the last minute, leaving me to pick up the pieces as you cried and wondered why she treated you that way, as if you meant nothing. I’d defended her then, saying she was busy, it was easy to forget arrangements that had been made. I don’t know why I bothered; she was always such a dick if it was us doing the un-arranging. She never stopped going on about me missing a night out with your family because of work. Easy to say when you don’t ever have to work.
Whatever happened tonight, I wouldn’t have to put up with the sound of her voice drilling into my head. I took a grim pleasure in that much, at least.
I walked upstairs into a room of drunk Irish people, kids running around, lights dim and music loud. The family had come over for the holidays. I smiled, rigidly. A dozen shiny faces grinned back at me, widely, as I was introduced. Drinks were brought for me. Several, at once. I wasn’t sure I could handle being there after all. It was completely overwhelming, a madness of movement and energy. But it was better than being alone. And let’s face it, I would have plenty of time for that.
I’m pretty sure they’d all been told what was up with me before I’d been brought round, because a gang of women with sympathetic smiles swarmed round me, asking how I was, pressing more alcohol on me. They were lovely. They were also pretty wasted.
One of them asked me if I’d thought about where I was going to live when I moved out. It was all I could do not to walk out and take refuge back in the flat. I’d spent the past forty-eight hours packing up our home, and yet the idea of not being in it devastated me.
There’s a great community in Tottenham, she said, and you get a lot more for your money. I stared at her, blinking rapidly, as if she’d suggested I move to Norwich, or somewhere even worse. Have another drink, she said. You don’t have to decide now.
The party went on, kids being packed off upstairs by swaying parents, the music getting louder, midnight approaching. Suddenly it was time, and everyone started shouting down from ten. I panicked. Wanting to be invisible, I had no idea where to put myself at the moment everyone grabbed their loved one and went in for a kiss. I shifted back against a wall, and stared round the room at so many happy people, so many hugs. Someone saw me and moved over, pulling me back into the circle. I was enfolded in an Irish embrace of several different arms. The worst was over.
I relaxed a bit then, in the company of these warm and generous people. Will you have another? Try one of these? Go on, it will cheer you up. I did as I was told and the small hours went by in a blur. The same woman as before staggered over at one point and, remembering my plight, asked if I’d considered a move to Tottenham? I grinned over the top of her head, and wished you’d been there to share the joke with me. I wondered again whether you’d still be up, if you were having fun, whether you’d thought of me at all as this new year had rolled around. I was altered enough not to fully feel the stab of pain that accompanied these thoughts. I was glad of that. It was good to be numb.
I stayed until five or six, the group gradually growing smaller as some slipped away, and others headed upstairs to join their sleeping children. Some of the parents remained downstairs, glancing at their watches as they calculated how much time they had until their offspring got up. How much time before their partner came down and berated them, bundling them into bed and out of sight.
I gathered myself for walking out into the dark morning. Our neighbours hugged me and told me to call back round later on, join them again for food and hair-of-the-dog drinks. I said yes, knowing I would not. I already felt a creeping sense of dread. I needed to sleep, and then to get on with my plan.
I got home and took a sleeping pill, then another half for good measure. I wanted oblivion, and I wanted it quickly. Lying down in our bed, in our half-empty room, I felt the now-familiar rising panic that accompanied every thought of the future. I waited, willing the tablets to do their work faster. I breathed as calmly as I could. Mercifully, it wasn’t long before it all stopped.
I woke up as it was going dark. The first day of a new year. I was glad I’d missed most of it. I was alone in our home, or the shell that remained of it. I felt like a fucking loser.
I sat up in bed and felt my head throb. I thought about what I still had to do, and calmed myself down by taking a mental inventory of the rooms I’d already packed. There wasn’t much left. There was a pile of shattered glass to clear away, and some bits and pieces in the living room. I wasn’t going to take the bed or the sofa. I would still be staying here, on the days that you weren’t, and even in my madness I knew I’d be making it difficult for myself as well as you if I took all the furniture away. Besides, I wasn’t being unreasonable. I’d left the rudiments of a functioning home in place: enough pans and plates and knives and forks for lonely meals for one. The towel set we’d bought with Christmas money from your mum. The TV, and the blanket that we used to wrap ourselves up in to watch it. I’d only packed what was mine, or my share, apart from some of your books. And that was your fault anyway.
I remembered the kitchen table. It was your pride and joy. You had told me you bought it with money left to you by your nan, a way of honouring her, something you’d use and enjoy every day. You had also told me your ex, the only one that had stuck around long enough to qualify as a relationship, had mocked you for it, its size, your aspirations of hosting dinners and parties with the table at their centre. He’d said you were a snob.
What a fuckwit, I’d said of him.
He was probably right though: you did, desperately, want to be that middle-class socialite you professed to despise. While you spoke behind your sister’s back about her pretentious artwork, and the sums she spent on bespoke curtains, you envied every part of it. The table was an emblem of who you thought you could be, who you wanted to present to the world. I knew how much it meant to you.
I went downstairs and pulled apart the two oak leaves that formed the tabletop, revealing the extra panel stored underneath. I took it out, and pushed the table back together. I put the wooden leaf beside the pile of boxes by the stairs, ready to go. I thought that, once you’d seen it was missing, you’d be forced to get in touch with me at last. That even if you wouldn’t contact me for my sake, you would if it meant you’d get back your beloved table. I was pleased with myself for thinking of it.
I finished off packing up the living room. Records, a couple of pictures, some cushions. I swept up the pile of glass I’d created the night before, and then carried on with my cleaning. Dusting shelves, mopping floors, hoovering and polishing. It was satisfying, and deliberate. It made the house seem emptier and it emphasised that it was me, as usual, who kept the place spotless: a double whammy.
I took what remained of last night’s pizza back upstairs, planning to eat it in bed and watch something mindless on my laptop. As I walked back into our bedroom I realised I hadn’t checked under the bed, where we had a couple of storage boxes mostly taken up with your shoes. But there might be something there I’d forgotten, so I pulled them out to take a look. And in the first one I found a folder, shoved underneath a folded sheet. For someone so spectacularly accomplished at lying, you’d done a shit job of hiding it. Perhaps you’d wanted me to find it? I opened the folder and inside lay a pile of papers, the top sheet labelled ‘transcript of a first meeting with Michelle Hendry’. Fuck. I was going to find out what your legal team had planned for me. I took the papers out, stupidly feeling almost gleeful. I thought I would get the upper hand back. I started to read, and bit by bit the room fell into darkness, only the white pages in front of me remaining, blindingly, visible.
I simply could not believe, at first, what I read on those pages. It was like having all the air sucked out of my being. I kept staring at the line ‘because there is a history of emotional, psychological and physical abuse’ and wondering how you dared say it. How fucking dare you?
I really wanted to hurt you then, I think. To simply snuff you out. I had been holding on by a thread for weeks, trying to make sense of why you were behaving as you were. Feeling worried for you, that you felt you had to do it this way. Actually feeling sad for you, sorry that you were so fucked up that this was the only way you felt you could proceed.
But no, I should have known. You were going to play the victim. The role in which you always excelled, a regular fucking masterclass this time. And you were going to spin it for every penny you could get.
I looked at the pages again, trying to calm my breathing. I was panicking, I could hardly catch my breath. I wanted to read the document again, but a feeling of absolute terror was taking hold of me.
I had no control over what you were saying to people. If you’d said all this to your lawyer, what were you saying to people I knew? What would they think? What would happen? Everything was spinning out of control and I had no way to get a grip on you, to stop what you were doing.
I phoned Nancy, and tried to explain what I’d found. I was talking too fast, gasping for air between sentences that tumbled out in no order. She got the drift. Should you be reading that? she asked. What the fuck does that matter? The point isn’t whether I’ve read it or not, the point is she’s fucking said it. Out loud. To a fucking lawyer!
