You see, the version of Charles that talked to everyone else, that charmed them, that laughed at their jokes? He was simply a disguise, a costume worn to conceal the truth. And he deceived them all: the men, in particular, but most of the women too, who thought him handsome and carefree and charismatic.
‘So,’ said Stanley, as we arrived at the bus stop. I stepped away from him and pretended to read the bus times printed against the concrete post. ‘So,’ he repeated. ‘The plans?’
I looked pointedly at my watch – it had been a present from Marnie – and still I said nothing.
‘We’re probably nearer yours, don’t you think?’ he said.
‘Are we?’ I replied. I ran my finger along the timesheet, the numbers printed black on white paper, fixed between two panels of plastic. I tried to look relaxed and natural, as though this was something people often did and not a bygone act from a previous decade.
‘I reckon so,’ he said. ‘Not much in it, but a bit closer to yours.’
I continued pretending to read.
I heard his footsteps against the concrete paving slabs, the weight of him approaching. His breathing was loud behind me, thick and steaming and scorched with alcohol, and I knew he was about to touch me.
‘Jane?’ he said. He took another step towards me until he was standing right behind me and then he snaked his arms around my waist. He kissed the back of my head, wet and noisy, and I solidified myself, drilling my heels into the ground beneath me, fixing my breath and holding my body firm so that I didn’t flinch. He squeezed me – not particularly forcefully – but still I felt that my entire body was being strangled, that I was suffocating.
‘How are … ?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Your place?’ He stroked his right palm up and down over my stomach, the upward brushes climbing higher and higher with each movement until I could feel his fingers skimming the stiff wire at the base of my bra, until I could feel them reaching the smooth fabric above. ‘Jane, you and me …’ he breathed into my ear, his words slurred and warm and moist.
‘Stanley,’ I said, and I moved sideways, away from him, away from the concrete post. ‘Stanley, I’m afraid I’m not sure that there really is a you and me.’
‘Oh,’ he replied, slightly affronted but more confused than anything else. ‘But I—’
‘It’s not you,’ I said.
He nodded solemnly. ‘Is this about your late husband?’ he asked. He was confident again, sure that he had found the answer to some unasked question, sure that he knew the very ointment to ease this wound. ‘Marnie said—’
She would have warned him to be gentle, to be careful.
‘No, Stanley,’ I said. ‘This isn’t about Jonathan.’ Which was true. ‘And it’s not about you.’ Which was also true, I suppose. ‘This really is just about me.’
A red double-decker rounded the corner, its lights bright against the night sky and, for once, entirely on schedule.
‘Do you think that maybe what you’re feeling is—’
‘This has been lovely,’ I interrupted, although I don’t know why I bothered because it was very clearly not even the slightest bit true. ‘And do feel free to keep in touch with Charles if that makes you happy. But I think this is probably it for now. In terms of a you and me. Sorry,’ I said. ‘And goodbye.’
I put out my left hand and the bus slowed, stopping beside me. I climbed aboard and, as the doors juddered shut, I offered Stanley an unnecessarily enthusiastic wave. He was still frowning as we pulled away.
I have dated too many men in the years since Jonathan. I didn’t speak to another man for over a year. But everyone started to fret, to worry that I was being overwhelmed by my grief, and it felt important to reassure them that I was still an active participant in my own life. Because – and this is something else that we all learn eventually – everyone knows that a single woman who is not at the very least in pursuit of romantic love is almost certainly entirely miserable.
That’s a joke. You could smile.
The truth is that I wasn’t looking for another love; it was too much to expect to find another great love in my otherwise underachieving life. I’d had Jonathan, and I couldn’t begin to imagine that another love could ever come close to that one. And I had Marnie. And it made her happy to think that I was still looking, that I had faith, that I believed in the goodness of the world.
And yet I tried not to date any man for too long, hence my swift departure. Partly because I found them all – and that’s the truth; every single one – suffocatingly smug and wholly insufferable.
And also because a very small part of me worried that they might actually start to like me.
Does that sound conceited? It isn’t meant to. Before Jonathan, I didn’t think that it was possible for someone to feel that way about me. I couldn’t believe that anyone would find that sort of love in someone so cheerless and so insecure. But Jonathan found things to like, things to love. He admired my competitive nature. He was impressed that I’d never lost a pub quiz. He thought it right that I was always early. He was amazed when I read a novel in a day. He loved that I was meticulous, a perfectionist, that I wanted to hang our pictures myself. And, eventually, I began to love those things too.
I didn’t want these men to fall in love with me because I knew that I could never fall in love with them. And I knew then – I still know – that rejection is a blister beneath the skin, a small hurt that can swell into something far more significant.
Is that an exaggeration?
I don’t think it is.
But this isn’t the time.
I wish I could tell you that this would be an easy story to hear but I don’t for a moment think it will. There will be a lot of death this evening and I wish it were any other way, but I have promised the truth and this, finally, is a promise on which I can deliver.
I am still unsure where this story really started – and I have no idea where it will end – but how to begin.
A couple of years ago, Marnie and Charles were living together in their flat and I was dating men who were not my husband and my family life was complicated but manageable. Those are the foundations on which this story started. This is the story of how he died.
Chapter Six
Most women in their late twenties and early thirties like variety, spontaneity, the chance to meet new people and do new things. That was never me. I have always been that eleven-year-old girl cowering in a school corridor and anticipating rejection. I have never actively looked for friendships, and so I find myself with very few.
Because, you see, I had a friend. And none of the others – the pretty blondes in tight denim shorts that cut above the creases of their bums, the guys in loose jeans and hooded jumpers nestled together around a spliff, the sports stars in their tracksuits and trainers, the library girls in their glasses and blouses, the posh boys in their chinos and jackets – none of them compared. I didn’t need them and so I didn’t pursue them.
I knew what I liked. I liked routine and repetition. I still do.
And so the morning after I axed Stanley from my life, I went to visit my mother. She was living in a residential home in the suburbs and it always took at least an hour to get there. And, because I liked to arrive no later than nine o’clock, so I could be there for the beginning of visiting hours, I would set an alarm before I went to sleep and then leave home early to catch one of the first trains of the day.