‘No, he didn’t.’ I plead with her, already knowing her ears are closed to the sound of truth.
‘Two. Peas. In. A. Pod. That’s what he said to me. He read them.’ She spits the words at me and, with each one, the pain in my stomach increases, so much so, that I think she must have stabbed me. That’s when I see the blood. I look at both of her hands, but they’re empty, there’s no knife. She’s looking down too now at the single line of red running down the inside of my right leg. My hands reach down to my belly and the pain bends me in half.
‘Oh, God,’ I manage to whisper. And then my knees are folding and I’m sinking lower and lower into the pain.
‘What’s happening?’ Claire asks.
‘Oh, God, no.’
‘Are you pregnant?’ She looks down at me, a mix of awe and disgust on her face. She doesn’t wait for my answer. ‘How could you not tell me something like that? We used to tell each other everything.’ I can see her mind working, overwhelmed with this new piece of information. Plotting a new course.
‘I’m sorry,’ I manage to say, because she thinks I should be. Her face doesn’t change.
‘It’s just a tiny bleed. You’ll be OK. Give me the car keys.’
I shake my head. ‘Call Paul.’
‘Just give me the keys. The hospital is fifteen minutes from here, it’s quicker than calling for an ambulance. We’ll call him on the way.’
I do what she says, like I always have.
Now
Tuesday, 3rd January 2017
‘Are you hungry?’ asks Paul. I’ve been sleeping, the kind of sleep you can wake up from. I sit up in the hospital bed and let him adjust the pillows behind me. The door is open and I can see a trolley just outside.
‘She needs to take it slow, just a little at a time,’ Northern Nurse says to Paul, giving him a tray of food. I recognise her voice. She doesn’t look the same in real life as she did in my head. She’s younger, slimmer, less tired-looking. I never pictured her smiling, but she does, all the time. Some people appear happy on the outside and you only know they’re broken inside if you listen as well as look.
Paul takes the tray and puts it down in front of me. There’s chicken, with mash and green beans. A carton of juice and what looks like strawberry jelly. I’m so hungry but now that I can see what’s on offer, I’m less eager to eat it. Paul picks up the cutlery and loads some mashed potato onto a fork.
‘I can do it,’ I say.
‘Sorry.’
I take the fork from him.
‘Thank you.’
I eat most of it. I chew and swallow small pieces at a time, my throat still hurts from the tube. It didn’t look like much, but right now it feels like I might have eaten the best meal of my life. The chicken was overcooked and the potatoes were lumpy, but just to be able to chew and swallow and taste again made every mouthful exquisite. Because it means that I’m alive.
‘Can you remember any more?’ Paul asks.
I shake my head and look away. ‘Not really.’
He looks relieved. He talks about the future as though we have one and it makes me feel real again. I can’t imagine how it must have felt, seeing what Paul saw, watching a man do that to me. But it doesn’t seem to have changed things for him, not yet at least. My thoughts start to flatten out, his words ironing out the creases until the folds in my thinking are smooth. He persists over any remaining lines until the imperfect is made neat and tidy, as though brand new, unused and unspoiled.
Paul’s phone buzzes on the bedside table. He reaches over, reads it, then stares at me.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘You’ve got a visitor.’
I feel myself start to fade.
‘Who?’
‘Claire.’ He waits a while for me to say something, but I don’t. ‘Is that OK? You don’t have to see her if you don’t want to. You don’t have to see anyone. But whatever happened between the two of you, I know she’s very sorry.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘OK. She’s in the car park, so she’ll be a few minutes. I’ll tell her to come up.’ I look away while he texts my sister. Paul doesn’t know that I remember what happened that night. I haven’t decided what to do yet, how much of it I should pretend not to know.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ Paul asks.
‘I’d love a glass of wine,’ I reply.
He laughs, it’s a great sound. ‘I’m sure you would, but I think it might still be a tiny bit too soon for grape juice. One day at a time.’
He takes the tray and leaves it on the floor just outside, as though this is a hotel room and we’ve been ordering room service. I’d like to go somewhere, when this is over. Run away from real life for just a little while. Any place where you can feel the sun by day and see the stars at night. The door is open but she knocks on it anyway.
‘Hi,’ she says, waiting to be invited before coming any closer.
‘Come in,’ says Paul.
‘How are you?’ she asks looking between the two of us, but meaning me.
‘I’m OK,’ I say.
Paul gets up from his chair. ‘Right, well. I might just pop out for a bit, leave you two to catch up?’
I nod to let him know I’m all right. Claire and I stare at each other, a silent conversation already taking place behind our eyes. She sits in the chair Paul has vacated and waits until she’s sure he’s far away enough from the room not to hear.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, eventually.
‘What for?’
‘All of it.’
Before
Sunday, 14th February 1993
Dear Diary,
Today is Valentine’s Day. I didn’t get any cards but I don’t care about that. I have a family now, a proper one and that’s all I ever wanted. I’ve even got a new name. Claire Taylor. I think it sounds nice. I call Taylor’s mum ‘Mum’ and I call Taylor’s dad ‘Dad’ and I think they like it. I like it. Everyone likes it apart from Taylor. She sulked all morning today, playing with the doll I gave her in her bedroom like a little girl. She calls the doll Emily and sits and talks to her when she thinks nobody can hear.
After lunch I asked to go to my room and Mum said yes. I said I wanted to read my new book and she believed me. Because it is a Sunday, we had a roast dinner. We always have a roast on Sundays. Today we had chicken, a whole one, with roast potatoes and puddings from Yorkshire and lots of gravy. I ate all of mine, Taylor left most of hers. I would have eaten that too but I was already so full up I thought I might burst. I could hear Mum asking Taylor what was wrong as I climbed up the staircase. They’re always asking her what is wrong and it makes me so cross. Nothing is wrong. She should be just as happy as I am and stop spoiling things.
I passed Taylor’s bedroom on the way to my own and spotted Emily sitting on the bed, her glass eyes looking right at me. I remembered choosing her on one of the visits with the social worker, she was mine really and I could take her back if I wanted to. I had never seen a doll like her before, so real looking. She had shiny black hair, pink cheeks and a pretty blue dress with matching shoes. She looked precious. Perfect. I didn’t like her. I don’t remember picking her up or taking her to my room. I only remember looking down and seeing the compass from my pencil case in my hand and Emily on my lap, with her eyes all scratched out.
I wasn’t sure what to do after that, so I took Emily by the hand and went out into the front garden. I’m too old to play with dolls so I put Emily down. In the road. Her little feet tucked into the kerb. I still felt very full from lunch so I sat down on the front lawn and pulled out little tufts of grass with my fingers. The sun was shining and the sky was blue but it was cold. I didn’t mind though. I wanted to be outside, I wanted to see.