Читать книгу You, Me and Other People - Fionnuala Kearney - Страница 15

I’m sipping my first coffee of the day, sitting at the tiny wrought-iron bistro table on Ben’s balcony. Though the noise of the street below is sometimes intrusive, today I find it a positive distraction from the noise in my head. I have to go to work, but I want to crawl back into bed.

Though, if I do, the nightmares will be back. Dreams of my parents when they were alive, dreams of Beth and I when we were young … It seems my brain simply doesn’t want to sleep. It seems my brain is in frightening overdrive as soon as my head nears a pillow. Last night, my mother was shouting at me about Ben’s broken guitar, telling me that I was responsible. Then she burst into song. It was like something from The Sound of Music. Then Beth called her a termite. I asked her if she meant me. Isn’t it me who’s the termite? Just before I woke, Beth morphed into an enormous insect and bit my mother’s head off. Completely screwed. My head is completely screwed.

In the kitchen, I munch on a week-old croissant that I find in the bread bin. It tastes stale but the cupboards are bare. I’ve never really had to consider food shopping before. Beth always took care of it and the cooking. Briefly I wonder how she is, if she’s ready to talk.

The email from her telling me she wants nothing to do with me, the one that is probably the root cause of my nightmares, is now a week old. I was tempted, so tempted to tell her to sod off and pay for everything if she’s so goddamned independent, but I didn’t. I slam the plate and coffee cup into the sink, head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. My head is banging. I touch the back of it, run my fingers over the scar Harold gave me. It still feels bruised and sore. I root through the tiny medicine box that Beth brought up from the house; there are plasters, antiseptic lotion, some loose gauze but no paracetamol. In need of some form of analgesic, I stare at my mirror image and am horrified to see it start to cry.

Sitting on the edge of the bath, my tears fall. I’m painfully aware that the last time I cried was twenty-two years earlier when my parents died together. I held onto Ben at the graveside and knew our lives would never be the same.

‘Big boys don’t cry, Adam.’

My head hurts more when I shake the memory of one of my mother’s favourite mantras from my head. I don’t know what Beth would do now – possibly magic up some pain relief from a pocket somewhere – but I do know she’d fix this, just like she fixed me then, when she walked into my life a year later. And I can’t ask her because she’s not talking to me, has told me to stay away from her and would probably rather I curled up and died. A fate I possibly deserve.

I peer around the door of the office opposite mine and smile my brightest smile.

‘Jen!’

Jen, who has been both Matt and my shared PA for many years, looks up from the floor where she is sitting amongst three archive boxes full of files.

‘Ooh,’ she says, scrunching her face on seeing me. ‘Still not sleeping?’

‘Not great. As the authorized first-aider on site, please tell me you have a bucketfull of paracetamol. The Grangers are due in and my head’s lifting.’

She stands up, stretches her back out. ‘You should see your doctor, get something to help you sleep.’

I watch her open the meds cabinet; my eyes are wide like a junkie waiting for a fix.

‘Did you hear me?’

‘I did. It’ll pass. I’ve got a lot on my mind.’

‘You look exhausted.’

‘I am exhausted.’ I manage a smile. ‘I’ll be fine. Matt in yet?’

‘Already on his second coffee. Can I get you one?’ She hands me six paracetamol.

I smile again. ‘Thanks, Jen. I’ll be down with him doing prep.’

She grabs my hand as she passes the tablets. ‘We’ve known each other a while, yeah?’

Smile disappeared, I’m immediately concerned. An image of her resigning and somehow Matt blaming me pops up.

‘Well, you need to look after yourself. Ever since you and Beth split, you’ve been heading straight down the shitter.’

My eyebrows rise. ‘Succinctly put, Moneypenny. I’ll take that under advisement.’

She laughs.

And I head down to Matt’s office to prepare for a meeting with our biggest client.

For the second time in a month, my car is headed towards Weybridge, apparently driving of its own accord. Somehow, I got through the working day, but now, I need to try and sort this mess with Beth out; plus, I desperately need some fresh clothes. I haven’t called ahead. If she’s in, she’s in. If not, I have a cunning plan.

It was during the Granger meeting I noticed. It was a difficult meeting, with the clients more antsy than usual, the markets having given us a thrashing these last months. I made the right noises but, as I moved my keys around in my pocket, I felt it. The back door key … She can’t lock me out of the house! My cunning plan – talk to her if she’s in, but enter my own home if she’s not. Get some clothes, have a wander around, just because I can … Maybe wait for her to come home, lounging on the oversized sofa in the living room, a glass of rioja in my hand. I hold my breath for most of the A3. When I reach Weybridge, I see that Beth’s car isn’t there and I park around the corner from the house.

From the car, I phone the house. Answerphone … I approach slowly, quietly, ring the doorbell. She’s definitely out. I’m careful not to make too much noise. I don’t want snoopy Sylvia peering over the hedge again. I head around the side entrance and place the key in the backdoor lock, turning it quickly. Smiling, I enter, feeling like a thief in the night. I lean on the back door, praying that as usual she won’t have set the alarm. Beth forgetting to set the alarm when she leaves the house was a constant battle for us. Not looking forward to the telltale siren and mad dash to the box by the front door, my heart is racing in my chest. Nothing, she has left it off. I’m thrilled yet irritated.

Slowly, my heartbeat returns to something close to normal and I move around the house. It’s October and really I could do with the lights on, but I dare not; instead I use my phone light to navigate my way. In the kitchen I run my hand along the granite worktop. Everything looks just the same as it did all those weeks ago. If anything it’s tidier because I’m not here.

I climb the stairs slowly towards our bedroom. In the en-suite, I open the wall cabinet. My things are still there: aftershave, moisturizer, razor, toenail clippers. On the back of the door, my navy striped robe hangs on the hook next to Beth’s. I walk towards the bed, feeling a Goldilocks moment. I sit down on her side, then lie down, inhaling her scent. I stare at the ceiling. This was my home. This was the home we made and shared together. It still feels like home. The only thing that’s different is I’m not in it any more. I sit up, overwhelmed by a feeling of guilt.

As I exit the bedroom and walk downstairs, I look at my watch and can’t believe I’ve already been here for over an hour. And it’s at that moment that I hear the front door opening.

I dart into the living room, towards the back door. It’s locked. Shit! Did I lock it again when I came in? Where are my keys? I hear Beth humming to herself, pottering about in the kitchen. I can tell by the opening of the fridge and the slamming of a cupboard door, she’s getting a glass of wine. Shit. She’ll come in here to drink it. I hear the glug sound of the wine pouring, search my jeans pockets. Shit! As I hear Beth’s steps pace across the marble hallway, I do the only thing possible and hide behind the curtains. When Beth ordered them about five years ago, I was horrified by their sheer floor-to-ceiling size and the cost. Cost aside, I’m now grateful for their mass. Racking my brain, I come across an image. My keys. I left them by the bathroom sink while I was handling my toiletries. Shit!

From behind the curtain, after an entire episode of The Apprentice, I pray she’ll get another drink. C’mon, Beth, you always have two, why not tonight? Or have a pee? Your bladder is like a sieve, surely you need a pee? As if on cue, she heads to the kitchen. I listen for the swish of the fridge door opening but hear the sound of the kettle being filled instead. It is quickly followed by the closing click of the cloakroom door.

I race out of the living room and up the stairs. I grab the keys, listen from the top of the stairs and take my chance. I’m in the hallway, just short of the front door, when she emerges. Leaning against the door to the coats cupboard, I catch my breath. She can’t see me from inside. She’d need to actually come out into the hall. Once she settles down to the TV again, I can open the door and slip out quietly. Passing by, she stops and turns the lamps in the hallway on, from a switch just inside. The room is now bright; if she moves just a half metre to her right I am screwed with a capital ‘S’.

She doesn’t. Instead she takes her place on the sofa by the laptop again and drinks her cup of tea. I can tell all of this by sound alone. The irony is, I haven’t seen her. I can’t tell if she looks well, or drawn. I take a deep breath and then I see it, a floodlit message written on the hallway wall in paint:

I am Beth. I am strong. I am middle aged. I like champagne, chocolate, the ocean, lacy stockings, Ikea meatballs, flip-flops, Touche Éclat, music and lyrics. I don’t like politicians, call centres, size zero women, snobs, punk rock, horseradish, dastards and women who sleep with dastards

I can’t help but smile as, without even one item of fresh clothing, I slip silently out through the front door. Horseradish … Who knew?