‘Why don’t you text me a day and time?’
‘Yeah. Bye.’
He ends the call.
I keep the phone to my ear, mouth words,
nod,
roll my eyes a little,
anything to appear business-like.
Eventually Paul steps away from the window.
I have missed my niece blowing out her candles.
I am standing in drizzle.
He disapproves.
The irony: now he is jealous.
‘You’re married,’ you said.
I wiggled the fourth finger on my left hand,
showing off the gold wedding ring.
‘I forget to wear it,’ I said.
‘Right,’ you said. ‘Yes,’ you said. ‘You forget,’ you said.
‘And you also forget to talk about him. At all. Bit weird.’
‘That’s because we always talk about you,’ I said.
You were not happy.
The first of many betrayals.
Paul slams down a mug of camomile tea
in front of me.
Its slimy bag floats to the surface.
‘You’re always working.’
He has been hostile since we left the party,
and though he hasn’t mentioned the call
it is there between us,
reminding him of everything I am not.
You aren’t like other women,
Paul used to say, and still does sometimes,
though
the meaning has changed.
‘The partners are down my neck.
Give me a break.’
He sits in the armchair,
not next to me on the sofa,
and I am glad,
would be gladder
if he didn’t sit at all
but let me watch
David Attenborough alone.
I want to know what happens to the cubs
when a new lion enters the pride.
Will he kill them? Chase them away?
The lioness is powerless to protect her babies.
She skulks then lets the lion impale her.
‘You’re so moody,’ Paul says.
‘I’m tired,’ I tell him.
But I cannot explain how tired.
The exhaustion infects my lips, my eyelids.
Nothing twinkles or hums.
I don’t know how to make that happen any more.
Perhaps
with you gone
I should make an effort to please Paul.
He’s here
after all
and you are not.
He made me a hot drink.
My phone pings. A message from Mark.
‘I have to go in to work tomorrow actually,’ I say.
Paul frowns. ‘On Sunday?’
I sip the tea and turn up the TV
as a cub is mauled to death by her stepfather.
‘Yes. That’s what I just said.’
I took your hand
as you hailed a black cab
and without looking at me
you squeezed it and said,
‘We’ll detour via your place.
Come with me.’
In the back
we fell into each other.
‘I want you,’ I said.
‘I want you,’ you said.
Mouth on mouth
hands trembling
tongues confused.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Me too,’ you said.
We didn’t stop.
I undid your shirt buttons.
You gripped my chin so hard it hurt.
‘Oh, God,’ I said.
‘Oh. Oh, God,’ you said.
Outside The Starting Gate,
opposite the train station,
on the road parallel to my own,
I jumped out
unwillingly,
wanting to find somewhere,
a park even,
and waved cheerfully
like kissing
was nothing of consequence.
But
I didn’t sleep all night,
lay hypnotised by the white wall
thinking
what have I done what have I done
and called in sick
the next day
thinking
what have I done what have I done.
‘Everyone loves Brighton. I don’t get it,’ I say.
Mark considers the pub,
like he might be able to explain
the merits of the city
by drawing attention to
the fruit machines.
‘People like the sea.’
I’m craving a sticky toffee pudding. Custard.
This pub looks like the place to satisfy that need,
and I am hungry for the first time in days.
Mark nods at my empty.
‘I’ll get you another.’
He heads for the bar.
I check my phone out of habit
but you are still dead.
You will not message me again.
‘I got crisps,’ Mark says.
‘Does Donna know you met me?’ I ask.
‘Donna? Fuck, no.
She hasn’t a clue about you,
or you and Connor.
She’d call it scheming.’
‘Mark shags around a lot,’ you’d said,
likes to have women hurt him.
But a good bloke.
Loyal in other ways.
Ridiculously talented artist.’
He opens the crisps, nudges them towards me.
‘I’m not sure what we’re doing here,
to be perfectly honest.’
‘Was he ever going to leave her?’ I ask.
My question is smudged by the ping of a cash register.
Mark leans forward. ‘What?’
He has a chickenpox scar above one eyebrow,
moles on his neck.
In the breast pocket of his shirt is an assortment
of pens and pencils.
Evidence of his creativity.
‘At the funeral Rebecca was acting like a real wife.’
‘What are you talking about?’
He uses the rubbery end of one of his pencils
to remove a mark from the table.
‘Did he love her? Did he love me?’
‘He was lost, Ana. From day one
the whole thing was fucked.’
‘And by day thirty? By day seven hundred?’
I hold out my hands,
use my fingers as counters.
‘We both know it’s too late to figure it out.’
He folds his coat across his lap.
He would like to go now;
I know the signs.
‘I need the truth,’ I tell him.
Mark sighs. He is impatient,
as if we’ve known one another for years
when I have met him only twice –
once with you,
a drunken night of karaoke,
and then at your funeral.
‘You know the truth, Ana.’
But he is wrong. I know nothing.
Even now.
Why am I here and not at home?
Paul will dump me.
I will deserve it.
Mark sips his ale, touches the base of his neck.
It is an intimacy I do not need
‘You want me to say Rebecca’s the devil, is that it?’
‘How is Rebecca?’ I ask.
‘Let’s not go there,’ he says,
as you would have:
I don’t want to talk about Rebecca,
and
Can we leave my wife out of this?
and
Why does she matter so much?
and
Don’t humiliate yourself talking about her like that.
You didn’t like refereeing
between her and me,
Rebecca ignorant of her involvement in a battle.
I swirl my wine. My guts swim.