I hate it. His concern at the growing bruise first thing this morning vanished when my shopping started to arrive, and that was that. More anger and the same demanding questions of last night that I still wouldn’t answer. He wanted to know where I’d been. Why I was out when he got home. What I’d been doing.
I obviously can’t tell him where I really was – I’d planned to be home before him, but my poor timing was another error in last night’s fiasco – but perhaps I should give him something. Or not. I’m quite enjoying this moment of quiet power over him. I may be the one locked in, but what he wants to know is locked in my head. I’ll take that. Still, I feel exhausted now that I’m alone.
It’s not only my face that hurts. My arms and legs ache too. My muscles scream from being strained. Even my ribs hurt a little.
I need a bath. I need to soak it all away and think. I take the stairs slowly, weighed down by my self-loathing and self-pity, and as I start the water running, I move his shirts from our wardrobe to the smaller one in the spare bedroom. I hang them in colour order, how he likes them. I touch them with all the gentleness with which I can no longer touch him. Self-doubt grips me and I feel very, very alone.
I take my mobile phone out of the shoe box at the back of the cupboard, hidden under a satin pair of Jimmy Choos, and then peel off my clothes and lower myself into the hot bubbly water. I keep the phone within reach, on the toilet lid. Maybe he’ll try ringing me. Maybe he’s sorry. Maybe he’ll tell me he wants to make everything better. They’re idle thoughts. We’re too far down this long track for that.
I close my eyes and let the water soothe my muscles. My heartbeat throbs in my face; a steady rhythm pacified by whatever drug he’s made me take. It feels quite pleasant in a strange way. I’m about to drift off when the sharp buzz of vibration jolts me upright. It’s a text. From Louise. I stare at the screen. She never texts at weekends.
I did it!!!!
I stare at the words, and then I smile, despite the pain in my face. She did it. She actually did it. My heart races, pounding its beat in my chest and cheekbone. I love Louise. I really do. I could burst with pride.
Suddenly, I’m no longer sleepy.
25
THEN
The smoke is strong and sweet, and when it hits her lungs it’s such a shock that she coughs it back out until her eyes water and then they’re both laughing, even though her chest feels like it did in the days after the fire.
Rob takes the joint back and smoothly inhales a deep lungful. He blows out smoke rings. ‘That, my dear,’ he says in a faux posh accent, ‘is how to do it.’
‘Where did you get this shit?’ She tries again, and this time manages to fight the urge to choke. The buzz is pretty instant. A warm, tingling light-headed feeling. She likes it.
He wiggles an eyebrow at her. ‘I have my own irresistible ways.’
‘No really. Where?’ Rob is pure energy to her. She loves him a little bit, she knows that. He’s so different. She has never met anyone who gives less of a shit about all the things you’re supposed to find important. All the things her parents found important. The things David finds important. Having a plan. A career. Rob is like the wind. Here, there, and everywhere. Destination unknown. It must be wonderful to be like that.
‘One of the nurses. I persuaded him to get it for me.’
‘Which one?’ She stares at him. She can’t even imagine how she’d start going about that.
‘Does it matter? They’re all equally dull,’ he says, looking out into the night. ‘Just one of them.’ They’re locked in one of the bathrooms. The sash window is pushed up high, and they’re squashed together as they lean out, smoking. She had gone to the boys’ wing even though Rob had volunteered to come to her. She wanted to do it. She wanted to take a risk. To feel something. And creeping through the corridors to the central staircase, sneaking past the solitary light of the night nurse’s station below, and then up to the other, illicit wing of Westlands had been exhilarating. She’d been breathless and giggling when she got there, and now with the weed burning her lungs she feels brilliant.
She wonders which of the nurses he got it from and why he won’t tell her. Is it because she hasn’t told him why the solicitor was here? He hasn’t asked, but she knows him well enough to know that isn’t because he’s not curious. Of course he’s curious. He’s the cleverest person she knows, except maybe David. She takes the joint from him and inhales. There’s a cool breeze that lifts her hair and she feels like she’s flying. She laughs a little bit, from nowhere. Flying. Maybe she will tell Rob about the solicitor. They have their own secret now anyway. As if in tune with her thinking, Rob speaks.
‘Where do you go when you dream? You know – what’s on the other side of the door for you?’
‘Different places,’ she says. It’s a deflection. It’s harder for her to explain. The first door was a long time ago for her. It’s different now, and has been for a few years. He’s new to all this. ‘Depends on my mood.’