Swimming Upstream

11

My interview took place a week later and was merely a formality. Hurricane Andrew had just hit the North-Western tip of the Caribbean and Southern USA, leaving devastation in its wake. I looked at the floor and tried to imagine what it would like to be buried underneath a collapsed building, whilst Phil sat opposite me in his office and asked me a series of pointless questions to which he already knew the answers. The appointment of the new programme editor was announced the following day, and two weeks later I found myself once more driving round the countryside talking to farmers about government subsidies and mechanisation and frantically scanning the Guardian's media pages for jobs in London.

“Don't take it personally. He just happened to be the right man for the job, that's all,” Phillip told me. “You’re next in line.”

The following week a family was murdered in an arson attack in Cherry Hinton, creating a temporary diversion to the issue. I attended the inquest with anticipation, did a two-way from the Radio Car with the Drive Time presenter and the Cambridgeshire Chief of Police, and was congratulated over the talkback by Phil, who assured me that the interview would be channelled through to the national network. By some strange quirk of fate, Simon Goodfellow managed to tape over it before it could be sent off and my supposed moment of glory passed unceremoniously.

“Well I heard you, and I thought you sounded great,” said Catherine that evening. It was the third time she'd rung that week. Last night we'd broken both our individual records for the longest telephone conversation ever. It had lasted two hours and fifteen minutes.

“Thanks, sweetie,” I said, balancing the telephone receiver between my ear and my shoulder and lighting a cigarette. “But I don't suppose anyone else did.”

“Maybe it'll be on the air tomorrow at breakfast time,” she said hopefully.

“I don't think so somehow.”

“Lizzie,” Catherine sounded edgy, suddenly. “Could I, maybe, come and stay with you for a day or two?”

“Of course you can!” I was delighted. “You know you're always welcome.”

“Maybe you could pick me up on your way home tomorrow?”

“Not a problem.” I paused. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, no,” she said, quickly. “Just need a break that's all. And I miss you,” she added.

“I miss you too,” I agreed. “It'll be great to see you in person. I'm getting Telephone Ear, at this rate.”

“What's that?”

“You know, when your ear goes flat and develops a numb, tingling sensation from too many hours spent on the telephone. I'll see you tomorrow. I can’t wait.”

Catherine was waiting for me at the Newmarket Road Park and Ride. I knew there was something wrong the minute I saw her. Her face was pale and drawn and her left cheek red and slightly puffy. Her hair hung loose and lank around her shoulders. She was wearing a grey flannel skirt and a navy blue jumper. It looked as if she was wearing our old school uniform. I opened the car door and hugged her as she got in. She clung to me and buried her face in my shoulder. We stayed like that for a few minutes, then I started the engine.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I asked her, as we drove round the ring road and onto the motorway.

“I guess I've got Telephone Ear,” she joked. “I spent too long on the telephone to you and got a thick ear for it.”

I gasped. “Are you serious?”

She nodded.

“Oh Catherine ... I'm so sorry.”

“It's not your fault.”

“I know.” I squeezed her hand. “I'm just sorry, that's all.”

I glanced at her sideways as she sighed and stared ahead through the windscreen at the road ahead. It was starting to rain. I flipped on the wipers. Catherine sat mesmerized, watching them flick backwards and forwards. I remembered doing that when I was a kid, trying to coincide each flick to the left with a telegraph pole by the roadside. I slipped into reverie, relaxed in her company, remembering past car journeys, driving in the rain. When I glanced over at her, Catherine was fast asleep, curled up in her seat like a baby.

She woke as we pulled up outside the flat, and put her hand to her mouth.

“God, I was dreaming,” she said. “I dreamed my teeth were falling out.”

“That means you're worried about money,” I said.

“Am I?”

I laughed. “Well, maybe not yet,” I said. “But after tomorrow you will be.”

The next day the rain had cleared and it was warm and sunny. We walked down to Bond Street and then, with several detours, along Oxford Street to Tottenham Court Road. Catherine bought a pair of strappy sandals with chunky heels from Shelly’s, a pair of earrings and a beautiful pink, white and blue floral dress. I bought a pair of jeans and a very expensive brown suede jacket that I couldn’t afford from a shop on Carnaby Street.

“I feel wonderful,” said Catherine as we sat outside a cafe in Soho drinking cappuccinos. “I feel ten years younger. I'm not going to be able to eat for the next month, of course, but who cares?”

“Retail Therapy,” I smiled. “Nothing like it.”

We took a bus up to Finchley Road. I told Catherine we were going to The Heath. On the way, however, I stopped at a hairdressers and dragged her inside.

“What are we doing?” she asked.

“Ha ha,” I smiled as the hairdresser came towards us. “Appointment for Donoghue? Three o'clock.” The hairdresser nodded and ticked Catherine’s name off in her book.

“Aah, help! I'm about to be scalped!” Catherine screamed, hanging out of the door with her hands over her head. People were turning in the street to look at her.

“Come back here, you coward,” I said, pulling her back inside. The hairdresser led her to a washbasin. “Just sit back and close your eyes. You won't feel a thing.”

“I can't afford this!” she protested, as a towel was put round her shoulders.

“My treat.” I smiled wickedly. “You're not getting out of it that easily.”

After Catherine's hair had been washed I sat behind her to direct, and to make faces at her in the mirror until she allowed the hairdresser to chop off more then a couple of inches. Eventually, as it struck her how much better it looked, she started to get excited and her hair got shorter and shorter. When we emerged out onto Finchley Road an hour later, Catherine had a bob.

We walked up through Hampstead village to the Heath and across to Parliament Hill where we sat on the bench looking out over the city, spread beneath us.

“What the f*ck am I doing?” said Catherine. “You were right. I should be here, getting involved in productions, student stuff even, just getting my foot in the door, making contacts in the theatres, not rotting away in a dead end, with...” She paused. “I've done nothing, since I've been with him, you know. Nothing. No wonder I'm depressed.”

She twisted the engagement ring on her finger, nervously. “God knows what he’s going to say about my hair,” she continued. She looked at me. “You know I haven’t had a haircut or bought an item of clothing in four years without consulting him, or at least thinking first, “Would Martin like this?” I’m lost,” she announced miserably. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

I took a deep breath. “Then leave him Catherine.”

“Leave him?” She stared out Eastwards towards Canary Wharf. “I can’t leave him. I’m supposed to be marrying him.”

“Do you really want to marry a man who pushes you around, who controls your life - who hits you?” I asked her.

Catherine flinched at the former implication now put into words. “Where would I go?” she asked.

“You can come and stay with me,” I said.

She looked doubtful.

“Catherine, it’s not that difficult. You’re not married…yet; you don’t have any kids.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m frightened. What if it doesn’t work out?”

“If what doesn’t work out?” I asked her.

“Me,” she said. “Without him.”

That evening we were sitting up at the bar in the Kings Arms. Catherine was wearing her new dress and sandals. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, and her fake diamante earrings were sparkling. She looked a million dollars and I told her so. She beamed happily. The door opened and Zara flew in and hopped up onto the bar stool beside me. I introduced the two of them and ordered a drink for Zara.

“So.” Zara was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“So what?”

“I've done it,” she announced, proudly.

“Done what?” I asked.

“Entered for the RGN. The exams,” she said. “They're letting me start on the fourth module, so I'll sit the finals next year.”

“Well…wow,” I said. “That’s great. So you feel okay about this?”

She took a large gulp of her drink. “I don't want to sit the exams, if that's what you mean. But I don't want to remain stuck where I am either. You were right,” she added. “It may be an uphill struggle, but if I stay where I am I'm stuck. Either way it's bloody difficult. So what have I got to lose?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.”

“You’re an inspiration,” said Catherine.

“Really?” Zara was pleased.

“Really.” Catherine tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I think you’re very brave.”

“You want to know what I think?” I said. “I think you are too. We all are. We are three brave women.”

“The three musketeers,” smiled Catherine.

“What were their names, now?” Zara scratched her chin.

“Athos, Porthos and Aramis,” said Catherine

“Blimey, that’s impressive,” I said. “Hold up, what about D’Artagnan?”

“I think he’s over there,” said Zara, suddenly blushing and smiling at someone over my shoulder.

“All for one and one for all,” announced Catherine, raising her glass.

I raised my glass to meet hers. Zara was still looking over my shoulder and smiling coyly. I glanced back to see a stocky, handsome man in a green rugby shirt. He was sitting at a table behind us, looking straight back at us and smiling.

Zara raised her glass slowly. “Yep. All for one, and all that. Unless, of course, that handsome guy over there walks across to the bar and offers to buy us a drink. In which case it’s every man for himself.”

“Woman,” said Catherine.

“Whatever,” said Zara, fluttering her eyelids and cocking her head to one side.

It was nearly eleven. Catherine was asleep with her head on my shoulder while Zara was busy being chatted up by the stocky, handsome man whose name was James. He had a strong Irish accent. Catherine and I sat across the table from them; Catherine snored softly while I played with my beermat and tried not to listen to everything they were saying, which was somewhat difficult.

“So come on James, what’s your last name?” asked Zara.

“Bond.”

“No it’s not!” Zara collapsed in a fit of loud giggles. “You’re so funny.”

Catherine stirred beside me, and sat up.

“Get your clothes off,” said James. “And I’ll buy you an ice cream.”

“Don’t give in to that!” I said, indignantly.

“No, no… it’s ‘For your Eyes Only,’” laughed Zara. “The film. James Bond says, ‘Get your clothes back on and I’ll buy you an ice cream.’”

“Oh. I see.”

“Only she hasn’t got them off yet,” added James.

Catherine leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Can we go now?”

“Sure.” I turned to Zara and raised my eyebrows. “Coming?”

“So you're a builder, you say?” Zara was leaning on one hand, gazing intently up at James. I raised my eyes heavenwards and looked at Catherine. She shrugged and yawned.

“Ay,” said James.

“What do you build?”

“Houses.”

“Can you build me one?” said Zara.

“Tell you what, love, I’ve got one I could show you right now, if you’re interested?”

“Great. I'm just going to the loo, and then we can go,” said Zara, laying her hand on his shoulder.

“Fair play,” said James, downing his pint.

Catherine caught my eye and jerked her head over her shoulder. I stood up.

“So, what’s about you, love?” said James, turning to Catherine.

“Huh?” Catherine rubbed her eyes.

“Tell me about yourself, why don’t ya.”

“She's a Thespian,” I told him.

“Oh, right, right.” He smiled at her, then frowned.

“So does she speak English?” he asked me.

“Of course I do,” said Catherine.

“Excuse me,” I said, squeezing past him, and heading towards the toilets.

“So, where's Thespia, then?” I heard him say from behind me.

Zara was, putting on her lipstick.

“You cannot be serious,” I said at the mirror.

“Why? I think he's cute,” said Zara. Her face was all pink and twinkly.

“Well, he's good-looking alright...” I admitted. “But what are you going to talk about?”

“He's quite clever really,” said Zara. “You're just prejudiced because he's a builder.”

“Zara, he says ‘love’,” I pointed out.

“‘Love?’ What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, it’s like ‘Birds’, isn’t it? It’s derogatory.”

“‘Birds?’ Did he say, ‘Birds’? Oh well, I’ll have to talk to him about that.”

I shook my head, despairingly. “So, you're going to go back to his house and sleep with him?”

“He told me,” said Zara, glossy-eyed, “what he'd like to do to me. He's been talking dirty to me.”

“He told you ...” I stared at her in the mirror. “What?”

“I'll tell you tomorrow,” she grinned, pulling on her raincoat. She winked at me and kissed me on the cheek. “Gotta go.”

“Zara, be careful,” I said. “Please.”

“I'll be fine,” she said. “Stop worrying.”

Catherine and I caught the tube to Baker Street and walked down Marylebone Road. As we neared the flat and I fished in my bag for my keys, a car door opened and a man got out.

“Oh, God,” said Catherine, stopping dead in her tracks and grabbing my arm.

Martin leaned up against his car door with his arms folded, staring at us, or more specifically at Catherine.

“So, where the f*ck do you think you've been?” he asked in a cool voice, loaded with angry sarcasm. Catherine didn't answer. “Look at you,” he sneered, contemptuously. “Dressed up like a tart. And what the f*ck have you done to your hair?”

He unfolded his arms and took a step forward. Catherine flinched, a knee-jerk response, and stepped back. “What are you doing here, Martin?” she asked, her voice wavering.

“What am I doing here?” he retorted, his voice rising. “I've been looking all over for you, you selfish bitch. Sneaking off like that. What the f*ck do you think you're playing at?”

“I needed some space, Martin,” Catherine pleaded.

“Space?” Martin snorted. “You and your f*cking dyke friend over there.”

“Now just a minute,” I began.

“Get in the car,” he ordered. Catherine didn't move.

“I said, get in the car!” He reached out, grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her over towards the car. Catherine screamed.

“Let her go!” I shouted. I rushed at him and started tugging at his arms. He turned around and brushed me off like a fly that was bothering him. I fell backwards and sat down on the pavement.

“My things are inside,” I heard Catherine cry as she was elbowed into the car.

Martin turned to me. “Get her things.”

“Don't bloody-well order me around!” I yelled at him, but stood up anyway, and shakily let myself into the flat.

I went into the bedroom and picked up Catherine's overnight bag. I peeped out of the window; there was no movement in the car. I glanced around the room at the relics of our day: the unmade bed, the empty chocolate wrappers and the make-up scattered all over the sheets, the tape recorder and cassettes spread over the dressing table, the wine bottle on the floor. I bent down shakily and picked up Catherine's clothes and stuffed them in the bag. I sat down on the bed and picked out her eye shadow and lipstick, then went into the bathroom for her toothbrush. All the while I was boiling with anger, knowing there was nothing, absolutely nothing I could do. Except call the police. But I knew Catherine wouldn’t want that. And somehow, neither did I.

I went back downstairs and out onto the street. Martin opened the car door and held his hand out for her bag. Catherine was slumped down in the passenger seat. It was dark, and I couldn't see her very well.

“Are you all right?” I asked her. She gave a barely perceptible nod. Martin snatched the bag from my hand and closed the door.

He started the engine, and the car roared off up the street.