In bed he went on top and we didn’t make eye contact very much. Impulsively I lifted one of his hands and pressed it against my throat. He held it still for a few seconds and then said: what do you want me to do? I shrugged. I want you to kill me, I thought. He stroked the hard muscle of my throat with his fingers and then lifted his hand away.
After it was over, he asked me about the bandage on my arm. Did you hurt it? he said. I looked at it but didn’t say anything. I could hear Nick breathing, hard, like he was tired. I felt a lot of things I didn’t want to feel. I felt that I was a damaged person who deserved nothing.
Would you ever hit me? I said. I mean if I asked you to.
Nick didn’t look over at me, his eyes were closed. He said: uh, I don’t know. Why? Do you want me to? I closed my eyes too, and breathed out very slowly until there was no air in my lungs and my stomach was small and flat.
Yeah, I said. I want you to do it now.
What?
I want you to hit me.
I don’t think I want to do that, he said.
I knew that he was sitting up now, looking down at me, though I kept my eyes closed.
Some people like it, I said.
You mean during sex? I didn’t realise you were interested in that kind of thing.
I opened my eyes then. He was frowning.
Wait, are you okay? he said. Why are you crying?
I’m not crying.
Incidentally it turned out that I was crying. It was just something my eyes were doing while we were talking. He touched the side of my face where it was wet.
I’m not crying, I said.
Do you think I want to hurt you?
I could feel tears coming out of my eyes, but they didn’t feel hot like real tears. They felt cool like little streams from a lake.
I don’t know, I said. I’m just telling you that you can.
But is it something you want me to do?
You can do whatever you want with me.
Yeah, he said. I’m sorry. I don’t really know what to say to that.
I dried my face with my wrist. Never mind, I said. Forget about it. Let’s try and get some sleep. Nick didn’t say anything at first, he just lay there. I didn’t look over, but I sensed the tension of his body on the mattress, like he was preparing to sit up suddenly. Finally he said: you know we’ve talked about this, you can’t just lash out at me whenever you feel bad.
I’m not lashing out, I said.
How would you feel if I was sleeping with other women and then coming to your house to brag about it?
I froze. I had actually forgotten by then about the date with Rossa. Nick’s reaction when I’d told him had been so blank that the incident immediately felt insignificant, and I hadn’t thought of it again. I hadn’t even considered that it might have prompted Nick’s strange mood. Privately I had to admit that if he’d done the same thing to me – sought out another woman, had meaningless sex with her, and then flippantly told me about it while I prepared his dinner – I would never have wanted to see him again. But that was different.
You’re fucking married, I said.
Yeah, thanks. That’s very helpful. I guess because I’m married that means you can just treat me however you want.
I can’t believe you’re trying to play the victim.
I’m not, he said. But I think if you’re honest with yourself, you’re actually glad I’m married, because it means you can act out and I have to take the blame for everything.
I wasn’t used to being attacked like this and it was frightening. I thought of myself as an independent person, so independent that the opinions of others were irrelevant to me. Now I was afraid that Nick was right: I isolated myself from criticism so I could behave badly without losing my sense of righteousness.
You promised me you were going to tell Melissa about us, I said. How do you think I feel about lying to everyone all the time?
I don’t think it bothers you that much. To be honest, I think you only want me to tell her because you’d like to see us fighting.
If that’s what you think of me, why are we even doing this?
I don’t know, he said.
I got out of bed then and started to put my clothes on. He thought I was a cruel and petty person intent on destroying his marriage. He didn’t know why he was still seeing me, he didn’t know. I buttoned my blouse, feeling a humiliation so deep it was difficult to breathe comfortably.
What are you doing? he said.
I think I should go.
He said okay. I pulled on my cardigan and stood up from the bed. I knew what I was going to tell him, the most desperate thing I could possibly tell him, as if even in the depths of my indignity I craved something worse.
The problem isn’t that you’re married, I said. The problem is that I love you and you obviously don’t love me.
He took a deep breath in and said: you’re being unbelievably dramatic, Frances.
Fuck you, I said.
I slammed his bedroom door hard on my way out. He shouted something at me on my way down the stairs but I didn’t hear what it was. I walked to the bus stop, knowing that my humiliation was now complete. Even though I had known Nick didn’t love me, I had continued to let him have sex with me whenever he wanted, out of desperation and a naive hope that he didn’t understand what he was inflicting on me. Now even that hope was gone. He knew that I loved him, that he was exploiting my tender feelings for him, and he didn’t care. There was nothing to be done. On the bus home I chewed the inside of my cheek and stared out the black window until I tasted blood.
23
When I tried to withdraw some cash for food on Monday morning, the ATM said I had insufficient funds. I was standing in the rain on Thomas Street with a canvas bag under my arm, feeling a pain behind my eyes. I tried the card again, though a small queue had formed and I could hear someone quietly call me a ‘fucking tourist’. The machine wheeled my card back out with a clicking noise.
I walked to the bank holding the canvas bag over my hair. Inside I stood in a line with people in business suits while a cool female voice announced things like: counter four, please. When I got to one of the windows, the boy behind the glass asked me to insert my card. His name badge read ‘Darren’ and he looked like he had not quite entered adolescence. After looking at the computer screen quickly, Darren said I was thirty-six euro in overdraft.
Sorry? I said. Excuse me, sorry, what?
He turned the screen around and showed me the most recent figures from the account: twenty-euro notes I had taken out of ATMs, coffees I had paid for by card. No money had come in for over a month. I felt the blood drain out of my face, and I distinctly remember thinking: this child who works in the bank thinks I’m stupid now.
Sorry, I said.
Were you expecting a payment into the account?
Yeah. Sorry.
It could take three to five working days for the payment to come through, Darren said kindly. Depending on how it was lodged.
I saw my own reflected outline in the glass window, pale and unpleasant.
Thanks, I said. I see what’s happened there. Thank you.
When I walked out of the bank, I stood outside the doors and dialled my father’s number. He didn’t pick up. I called my mother, still standing there in the street, and she answered. I told her what had happened.
Dad told me he paid my allowance, I said.
He must have just forgotten, love.