Читать книгу Name and Address Withheld - Jane Sigaloff - Страница 12

Thump… Thump… Thump…

Her pulse was currently reverberating around the inside of her cranium in Surround Sound. Her joints were aching and her eyeballs were hot and dry in their sockets. It wasn’t a hangover. That meant only one thing…but she couldn’t be ill. In thirteen years of schooling she’d only been absent for a handful of days, postponing any ailments for the lengthy holidays when she wouldn’t be missing out or overtaken by any of her classmates. She knew she was fiercely competitive—whether it was careers, gym attendance or just a Christmas game of Monopoly. It was in her DNA. As she struggled to the bathroom in an attempt to begin her daily routine and kickstart herself into action Rachel knew that today she would be forced to admit that she was human. It was a grand admission.

At least it was a Saturday. Work could wait twenty-four hours. They wouldn’t have official confirmation until Monday, but she was sure they’d won the account. Rachel smiled into the mirrored cabinet above the washbasin as she imagined telling the partners. She’d be walking on air.

It now appeared that all that air was in her eyelids; she’d never seen them looking quite so puffy. A quick prod of her neck and underarm area confirmed that her glands were up, and after sticking out her tongue and making the traditional self-diagnostic ‘aaaaah’ noise she searched the shelves for suitable drugs. Adding a couple of soluble aspirin to a glass of tepid basin tap water, she weakly swooshed the water round in the hope that the resultant whirlpool effect would speed up the fizzing process. It might only be 9:30 a.m. but the day already felt as if it was slipping away.

Rachel stared into the mirror, pawing in disbelief at the pallor which must have descended in the dead of night—along with the contrasting purple shadows which stretched under her eyes and shaded the sides of her nose. As she downed the grey aspirin suspension she grimaced at the nostalgic familiarity of the bitter bitty aftertaste. From the sad day that she had outgrown Calpol, aspirin had always been administered by her mother at the first hint of a temperature. Rachel shuffled back to bed and, teeth now chattering, crawled under the duvet, her breathing shallow to conserve heat.

She hadn’t had a sick day for at least a year, and had been working six-day weeks for almost as long. She simply didn’t do colds and minor afflictions. At least she was alone, free to doze in front of the television without interruptions. Her husband had left earlier, to tidy some things up in his office, and she knew where to find him—not that she did the needy wife thing very often. It wasn’t her style—although she did wonder whether he might prefer it if she was a little bit ditsy and less competent occasionally. This was the downside to a day in bed: too much time to think—and there was plenty in her personal life that merited attention. But she’d managed to dodge her problems for months, and she certainly didn’t want to face up to them when she was feeling as shitty as this.

After channel-surfing for over an hour, Rachel knew she must be seriously ill. Twenty minutes of morning television was usually enough to persuade even the most apathetic couch potato to rise from the cushions and do something with their life other than fantasise about remodelling their neighbour’s garden. Exhausted, she finally succumbed to unconsciousness, and when she next opened her eyes her body was on fire. Feverish strands of hair stuck to her scalp and her cheeks almost stung with the intensity.

Momentarily disorientated, she soon noticed a note on the floor. She craned her neck in search of the alarm clock: 14:07. Which day and which year she couldn’t be sure. Her brain was definitely lagging behind at the moment.

Rach

Didn’t want to wake you.

Thought these might help while away the afternoon. You might as well celebrate your temperature with an overdose of trash, fashion and recipes!

Off to Banbury to brainstorm with a client. Back later. You can get me on the mobile if you need me.

Beside the bed there was now a pile of magazines and a bottle of his cure-all—Lucozade. In all the years they’d been together she’d never once professed to like it, but she knew it was the thought that counted. Ironically, she didn’t appear to have the strength to open the bottle. It promised to be an energy provider—but only if you could get past the plastic seal.

Rachel’s palms were ribbed with the pattern on the cap when she finally heard the fizz and collapsed back into the pillows. Pathetically she sipped at the orange sticky solution and wrinkled her nose as she dramatically swallowed each mouthful as if it were her last. While she waited for the sugar to pervade her bloodstream she half-dozed while her mind wandered. He’d always been the thoughtful one, and she was always too busy to notice. Maybe she should book them a surprise holiday somewhere glamorous.

Rachel closed her eyes. She could do with a tan, and that feeling of the sun warming her skin as the sea breeze whipped over her bare tummy…

She’d barely seen him recently. Just the familiar shape of his back as she crawled into bed and the routine noises of his exercise bike, shower and toast ritual every morning. She hid behind her eyelids until he left for work at seven—that way she could focus on her day without having to make interested conversation while he brushed his teeth. She did love him in her own way, even if she had trouble demonstrating it.

Rachel pulled a face. The thought of physical intimacy was a total turn-off. She just had too much on her mind. Thank God she was married. At least there wasn’t pressure to be out there sleeping around and regaling the team with tales of random sex in unusual places. But there had been a time when they’d made love whenever their paths had crossed, day or night. Now they barely made cups of tea for each other.

In her fluey haze Rachel suddenly became preoccupied with the fact that he’d made it all the way to her side of the bed while she was asleep. In theory someone could have broken in and stolen everything from around her before pumping her full of bullets and she wouldn’t even have woken up. She really should stop watching Crimewatch. She’d always been terrified of being burgled when she was in the house, and this quality thinking time wasn’t helping. In a minute she’d have to get up and check the house for unlocked windows just in case. In a minute.

As another chill spread through her bones Rachel snuggled down in her now sweaty, fever-ridden T-shirt. Sport seemed to be dominating the television, and she turned it off assertively. Somehow her head couldn’t cope with the combined noise and bright light from the screen any more. Even on the lowest volume setting it felt as if everyone was shouting. Rachel realised that this could be turning into a whole weekend in bed. If anything she was feeling worse, not better. Just as long as she was back in the office on Monday morning… She might even manage a couple of hours tomorrow if she was feeling a little less wobbly…

Rachel flicked through the selection of magazines. This was a rare treat. She never actually had time to read the ones lying around the office, and they were only really there to monitor rival campaigns. She was impressed with his choice. Some of her favourite titles plus a selection of the newer British shelf-fillers. The fashion pages had always been one of Rachel’s must-read sections of a magazine, but as she leafed through next season’s essentials she observed that the models seemed to have got younger and thinner since she’d last looked… Thirty-six next birthday, yet it only seemed like yesterday that she had been celebrating her twenty-fifth. Now she was sounding old. She was starting to think things that she had heard her mother say years ago.

Rachel read the copy printed alongside the pictures. It would be far more useful for the reader if they could be just a fraction more honest: Cristalle—it was all about the name; you just didn’t get catwalk models called Joanna or Jane—wears a trench coat that you will never be able to afford and that will never look this good on you, probably because you won’t wear it over your best underwear to nip to the supermarket. Gypselle has been airbrushed to look good in that bikini. Petra pouts for Peckham in an outfit worth the GNP of a small developing country…

Half an hour of ludicrous fashion suggestions, a few potential new looks, an innovative way to apply eyeshadow and several irrelevant horoscopes later, Rachel found herself reading a problem page. They’d always been the most interesting part of a magazine when she’d been at school. Educational, voyeuristic and at times aspirational. All the girls had pored over the pages and learnt a great deal about G-spots, blow jobs and old wives’ tales—all stuff they’d claimed to have known about years before as they’d committed the information to memory before hurriedly stuffing the magazines into their desks at the first glimpse of a member of staff on the horizon.

Over twenty years later Rachel was still gripped. It appeared that agony aunts had come on leaps and bounds. Normal, humorous, down-to-earth and practical advice. Not evangelical or hypothetical. She squinted at the photo. This one wasn’t unattractive either, and, at a guess, was about her age. Rachel digested the page and accompanying column in minutes, before sitting back on the pillows. She didn’t need to pay a shrink to tell her that the reason she was so interested in other people’s problems was because she had several of her own.

For all her denial and self-justification, Rachel knew that every way you looked at it she was taking him for granted. But she simply didn’t have the energy to spoil him at the moment. She’d read the marriage repair articles, she knew it wasn’t about grand gestures but just about doing things together, but time was the one commodity that she couldn’t spare and it was impossible to fit a weekend away into a Sunday afternoon.

She was sure that in a few weeks things would calm down at work—but wasn’t that what she’d said in July? And now it was December. And if she was doing a bit more taking than giving at the moment surely she could make it up to him in the long term…wasn’t that what this lifelong partnership deal was all about? He’d tried to get them to ‘talk’. He’d said she didn’t listen. That everything was always on her terms. They’d laughed about that. But what if he’d given up?

Rachel shook her head. He adored her. Everyone said so. He’d always run to his work when things weren’t going well. She’d taught him to. Besides, if it kept him occupied what was the harm? At least if he was busy she didn’t feel quite as guilty.

Part of the problem was her lack of an available sounding board. Her mother would tell her to reassess her priorities, but then her mum could single-handedly set women’s emancipation back one hundred years in one afternoon with her traditional take on married life. Rachel knew she didn’t approve of her daughter’s lifestyle. And she adored her son-in-law. Their friends all saw them as some sort of golden couple and outsiders saw a good-looking, high-earning, well-dressed couple—people will excuse almost anything if you are aesthetically pleasing—out there getting what they wanted from life. It was a masterful deception. Rachel knew that she should swallow her pride and well-disguised insecurity streak and just call one of her older mates, but she couldn’t help but see it as a weakness that she couldn’t cope.

It must have been a combination of these reasons, coupled with her abnormally high temperature and a strange heaven-sent force, that drove Rachel to do something that she had never thought she would ever do. Taking the ‘Ask Lizzie’ column to her study, she wrapped herself in a blanket and flicked on her computer. It was as if an alien force had entered her body. She half expected Mulder and Scully to appear shouting in the doorway, just as it was too late to save her, but something compelled her to sit down at her computer and type out a letter.

It flooded onto the page. Rachel couldn’t get the sentences out fast enough. Seeing the words on the screen was cathartic, and much less expensive than hiring a therapist, and somehow it was a relief not to have to say any of it out loud. She could admit to herself that she was a bit of a selfish, self-centred control freak with workaholic tendencies who had taken her husband for granted via a keyboard, but actually vocalising it would be a whole different ballgame.

One long, convoluted paragraph later, Rachel looked up. There it was—her life in black and white. She added a few commas and full stops before signing it without thinking, then deleted her name and, remembering the problem page etiquette of her youth, typed ‘Desperate Matt Dillon fan, London’. Smiling, Rachel replaced the pseudonym with the more credible ‘Name and Address Withheld’ and pressed print quickly, before she lost her nerve.

Deleting the document from her hard drive, she held the only hard copy above the wastepaper basket for a few moments, resisting the urge to scrunch it into a ball, instead folding it and putting it in a self-seal envelope. She hadn’t enclosed her address. She didn’t really want or need an answer. But by sharing everything with a total stranger at least now she felt she’d been proactive. She addressed the envelope and slipped it into her briefcase. Maybe she’d post it. Then again she could always shred it tomorrow at the office if she changed her mind.

As she clambered back into bed Rachel closed her eyes and promised herself that she would make more of an effort. Five years of marriage were worth fighting for. She was far too young to be a divorcee. These agony aunts are fantastic, she mused. She felt tons better already.