Even the sound of his name lifts me. I want to talk about him all the time, even if it has to be couched in angst and uncertainty. ‘Not really,’ I admit. ‘I mean, it can’t last for ever, obviously, but it’s not easy ending it, either, when we’re seeing each other every day. I guess we’ll have to call it off sooner or later.’ I know the truth of what I’m saying, but my mind is entirely closed off from it, wrapping itself up in a neat little cocoon away from reality.
Jess nods, pursing her lips in consideration. ‘How do you really feel about him?’ she asks. ‘I mean, are you—’
‘No,’ I say quickly, because I know what she’s about to ask and it isn’t something I want to think about. ‘I mean, we get on so well. Incredibly well. We just click. But he’s so much younger than me and, looking at it logically, it would never work in reality, would it … I can’t explain it,’ I finish lamely. What I want to tell her is that it is fun. I want to tell her in minute detail about what we did that morning, giggle and blush over it like a young girl in the throes of a new romance. But that’s exactly what I can’t do. In my situation, fun is indecent; mental torture and self-flagellation are the expected norm.
She sighs, and nods again. ‘I hope you sort it all out,’ she says. ‘I think it’s really sad, you know. It’s just so sad.’ She speaks without agenda or condemnation – simply, honestly – and I can’t bear it, because it only takes a few words like these to twitch the veil aside and show me that she’s right, and I can’t let this sadness overwhelm me. Twisting around in my seat, I drain the last of my drink and reach for my coat.
At the station, I hug Jess goodbye and see her on to her train, then pass back through the barriers and pull my mobile from my pocket. Nightcap? I text. I am only a few minutes’ walk from where Carl lives and, although I had told myself I wouldn’t see him tonight, now that the moment has come, I can’t resist. I imagine him lying on the bed I have never seen, hands clasped behind his head, thinking about me in the same way I’m thinking about him. It’s too seductive to pass up.
The answer comes back almost instantly. Where are you? X
Outside the station, I text back. So cold and lonely! ;-) X
Say no more. I’ll be there in ten. X
I pace up and down on the street, shivering in the cold night air, nerves and anticipation coiling in my stomach. When I see him walking towards me, I feel my face split into a smile, and without thinking I’m running to meet him and almost jumping into his arms, wrapping my own tightly around his neck. He kisses me. His mouth tastes of toothpaste and he’s wearing a different shirt from the one he had on in the office earlier today. He’s dressed up, made an effort. For me. The thought is giddying and delightful.
‘Hello,’ I squeak, hugging him tightly.
‘Are you a bit pissed?’ he asks, laughing. He draws back to evaluate, his eyes teasing me.
‘Maybe a bit.’ My head is swimming lightly and I feel a little unsteady on my feet, as if I’m walking on air. ‘Come on,’ I say, tugging at his sleeve. ‘Let’s go and have a drink in that bar.’ I gesture towards the place Jess and I have just left, and he agrees readily, slipping his hand into mine as we cross the road.
‘Back again?’ the doorman asks as we enter. I think I see a spark of knowing recognition in his eyes: an awareness that a woman who leaves a bar with a friend at eleven at night and comes back ten minutes later with a man in tow is with someone she shouldn’t be with. Before I have the chance to consider, I give him a wink as I pass. It should feel sordid, this conspiracy of silence between strangers, but it excites me.
The next hour is a haze of mutual appreciation – neglected drinks, jokey conversation punctuated by kisses and caresses. I find myself touching him again and again, unable to keep my hands away. His hair is ruffled and I reach up to smooth it down, then slip my fingers up underneath his shirt and pull him towards me. It feels as if I have never done these things before. Through the haze of alcohol, I have the dizzying sense of everything falling into place – the strange, magical sensation of wanting exactly what I have right now. I notice that he can’t stop smiling at me, and it reminds me surreally of how I used to think of him, back in the days when we were no more than friends. Attractive, but a little detached and reserved, despite his banter – a little closed off. I feel as if I’ve discovered something incredibly precious. More than discovered: I feel as if I’ve created it. I’ve made him happy in a way that I can’t seem to make my own husband, no matter how hard I try.
On cue, my phone buzzes in my bag, and I reach absently down to find it. Francis has woken up. Not on your way back yet? Let me know when you are. Would have been nice if you’d let me know you were staying out late, but I suppose, given what a bitch you were before you left, it’s not much of a surprise. I read it over a couple of times, momentarily lost.
‘Something wrong?’ Carl asks. I shrug and, on impulse, I flip the screen towards him, showing him the message before stuffing the phone back in my bag.
‘Hmm,’ he says, frowning. ‘Well. Don’t quite know what to say to that. He must know a different Caro from the one I do.’
The words are casual but something in them drives to the heart of me and rocks me to the core. It’s true, I realize. What is happening here is far more than the sum of its parts. It’s a transformation. There is someone inside me who has been fighting to get out for years, and he’s ripping open the doors and swinging them wide, dragging her and all her dangerous new desires and compulsions out into the light.
At first, it was difficult sleeping in Caroline’s bed – even though the sheets were freshly laundered, I couldn’t help thinking about her lying there, a ghostly presence beside me. Last night, though, exhaustion overtook me swiftly and deeply. I didn’t wake until ten and, when I did, it felt as if I was surfacing from something much greater than sleep. Like coming back to life.
I lie there for a while, staring at the chaos I still haven’t cleared up in her room, the debris of clothes and papers that mark my investigation. It’s another half-hour before I drag myself out of bed and get washed and dressed, then pick up my phone to scroll through my emails. When I see her name at the top of the inbox, I feel something inside readjusting, calibrating – a soft, internal blow to the heart. Are you there? It’s not that I didn’t expect it. I wasn’t sure how long it would take, or which one of the subtle clues I’d left scattered around the house would tip her over the edge, but I knew she’d fall eventually. All the same, there’s something about the message that gets me: its directness, its neediness, the acres of blank space packed with invisible meaning around the words.
I leave it unanswered for hours, knowing she’ll be checking for a reply. Of all the lessons I could teach her, one of the most valuable would be that the world doesn’t always spin to her rhythm. Not everything has to be adjusted to her needs, reconfigured around what is best for her. She isn’t the exact centre of anything but her own life. She isn’t exempt from judgement or tragedy, any more than those she sees as circling in her orbit.
What Caroline wants isn’t always what she gets. All the same, when I do reply, I find myself falling in line with her. I keep it short and simple, although it’s twice as long as her own message.
If you want me to be.
Away
Caroline, May 2015