For Mum and Dad
The snow
‘Unexpressed emotions will never die.
They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways’
SIGMUND FREUD
They all stared.
The group of girls cooing over the fruits of their Christmas shopping trip stopped and slapped each other’s arms. The Marrieds ceased to argue and held hands. The Reading Man lost his page.
I stood in the Tube carriage among them.
A young suity-booty City Prick and a Sloane Ranger with a leg-kicking infant on her lap parted ways to expose a seat for me. I don’t believe out of politeness. Most likely out of fear, confusion. The fact my light-headed sways made it probable I’d fall their way.
Regardless of the reason, I was grateful, and squeezed my white taffeta-engulfed body between them, while attempting to keep the material under control, which proved impossible as the voluminous skirt overlapped onto them both.
The child, who I could now see was a girl, stroked my dress with her saliva-ridden fingers.
‘Look at the princess, Mummy.’
The mother buried her spawn’s head into her blazer, clearly wishing to God she’d just got a black cab as usual. However, her utter Englishness forced her to smile at me. I returned a semi-version, but was conscious of my front tooth, hanging by a minute thread of gum. It hurt. I closed my mouth and looked down at the blood covering my chest. It was odd how it had taken more to the embroidery than the taffeta.
Raising my head, I could see in the window’s distorted reflection Sloaney and City Prick looking at each other behind me in wide-eyed horror. Though they appeared to be strangers, I’d bonded them. Beyond their ghostly images was the huge High Street Kensington sign. It was telling me goodbye. I remember thinking I’d write a book about it one day. The Fucked Girl on the Train.
As we pulled away from the station, eyes screwed and faces twisted with calculations as they tried to decipher what had happened. Was I the jilter or the jiltee? But as you know more than anyone, Dr Franco, people are rarely what they appear to be on the surface. The Marrieds may have in fact been illicit lovers, the shopping girls been out on the steal.
Sloaney pressed her Chanel silk scarf against her nose. It was my vomit-laced veil she could smell. I was tempted to turn and tell her everything. Ask for her help. But I couldn’t, because I didn’t know her. I didn’t know anyone anymore.
She wouldn’t have given a shit, anyway. Her only concern being I didn’t scare Mini Sloane. I smiled at the kid. It cried.
I was already old news. People stopped gawking, or were doing so more subtly at least. They returned to their arguing, laughing, avoiding. Heads magnetically drawn down to phones. But then came the flashes. There was no doubt I’d feature heavily in conversations that day. Photo evidence was needed. I’d be trending on Twitter.
Reading Man glanced up from his book, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. Perhaps he was wondering which one my habit was. But then that’s what I love about London. Rather than staring, why didn’t they ask if I was OK? I was not fucking OK, people. In Manchester, I’d have been in someone’s house by then, being handed a cup of tea with six sugars and a Blue Riband.
The Tube slowed to a halt. Earls Court. I could see them on the platform waiting for me.
My tooth dropped onto my lap.
My darling Samuel,
I’ve never written a letter before. Love or otherwise.
As much as I’ve been desperate to tell you how much I miss you, think about you until my head spins, my stomach constricts, it was Dr Franco’s suggestion that I write.
You must know I intended to join you. I promise I did. But when it came to it, I couldn’t. Not now I have something to stay here for. I’m sorry.
It’ll be some time before I see you again and I can’t stop fretting that I never got to explain myself fully. Aside from the brief, clumsy attempt you allowed me that day. That terrible day. I can’t even steady the pen as I write these words.
Anyway, I’ve decided to take his advice. Tell you everything. From the beginning. My account of it all. My side. Moment by moment. Hurt by hurt. Though Dr Franco insists there are no such things as beginnings. Only the point from which someone is prepared to start telling their story. So I’ll start from our beginning. And I promise it will be the entire truth. Something no one else shall know.
I often think about the first time I saw you: when they broke the news that Dr Williams had been killed at the weekend.
Dr Harris and Dr Short had gathered everyone into the surgery waiting room, even menials like myself, and Harris relayed the shocking details. ‘You may as well hear it from me as there’ll only be speculation.’ Mrs Williams. An argument. The car that hit him as he ran across the road after her. How he was still alive when the ambulance arrived. How he was dead before they could get him into it. I heard it all. The terrible events. The intakes of breath. Linda blubbing next to me. I heard. But it was you who held my concentration.
You were the stranger among us. Kept your head down in respect. Or was it embarrassment? Your hair fell forward, draping your face in that way it does, and when you glanced up, your eyes, pale, unsettled, unsettled me.
Dr Harris hadn’t been speaking long before Linda felt faint. With difficulty, her being built like a walrus, I eased her round the Country Life-covered coffee table and onto the nearest section of modular seating, before fetching her a glass of water as instructed.
You stood in the doorway. I could smell you. Lemons. My hand brushed yours as I passed, but I didn’t acknowledge you or smile, merely walked on as if you were a ghost. On my return, you’d moved further into the room, meaning there was no accidental touch.
As I’m sure you’ll remember, Linda’s reaction was stronger than everyone else’s. Possibly even than that of Mrs Williams. It was always obvious she’d had a thing for him. We – Linda, myself and Alison – were responsible for all the doctors’ admin, as you know. But Linda coveted Dr Williams’s work. I could identify the glint through her cloggy eyelashes each time she had to go to his office. Poor Linda. The ‘speculation’ was that Mrs Williams was running away because she’d caught him with another woman. Another woman who wasn’t Linda. It wasn’t just his wife whom Dr Williams had betrayed.
I remember feeling conscious that I didn’t look upset enough. Or shocked. Even the unfriendly agency nurses, or the Ratcheds, as I called them, looked emotional. But I was just as shaken and moved by Dr Williams’s fate as everyone else. Only, I’d lost the ability to express. As you know, with me, it’s all inside. Always inside.
With Linda now settled into a low-grade wail, Dr Harris brought the meeting to practical matters. As a private practice, there wasn’t the option of telling people there was a three-week wait for an appointment. He wasn’t prepared to lose money, dead partner or not. That was when he introduced you.
I never liked Dr Harris. Mainly because he was a wanker. But also, the way he’d always point – no, jab – with his party-sausage fingers, onto which he’d somehow managed to stuff a ring. I wondered about the woman who’d screw such a man for a nice house and car. I presumed that was her motive. But I couldn’t imagine a house or car spectacular enough.