Page 53 of What It's Like in Words
He popped up like a jack-in-the-box. Because if you heard it in a song then it must be true?
Fuck you, I thought.Fuck you.And I started shouting. I hadn’t shouted at him before, and it was a downpour. I shouted that his reaction to my news was upsetting. I shouted that I hated how he went from hot to cold. I shouted that I didn’t know how to talk to him. I shouted that I knew that Steph had feelings for him. I heard my high, strained voice and knew that I should shut up; I was in a hole and every word made the hole deeper and darker but I kept hopelessly searching for the right word to close the hole up.
He waited until I ran out of words, and then he said: You’re being a fucking cunt.
I slapped him.
He held my gaze and then slapped me with a force that propelled my face onto the bed. Everything slowed the way the tide pulls back before a wave. The rhythm of my cheek. The smell of my orchid laundry detergent. And then it came: the panic.
What have I done? Oh god, what have I done.
I straightened up, and he was dressing. Stop it, please, I said.
He looked at me, growled: Do you know how pathetic you look? Stop clutching your face!Grow up.He pulled his jeans up, and his boxers bunched. No, stop it! He put his T-shirt on back to front. Take it off. His trainers.Take them off.Pressure built around my head like a helmet. The air was thick and wet. He charged to the door, but I threw myself in front of it. You can’t leave. You can’t leave me. My nighty slipped off my shoulder.
I’m warning you, Enola, get off me right now. His face was purple. He shoved me into the door.
I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Please don’t leave me. I’m so sorry.
Fuck!He flung his hands over his head then, from his rucksack, retrieved his inhaler, sat on the edge of the bed, and inhaled twice. But I couldn’t breathe. Gaps appeared. The room was dark. An echo told me to sit on the bed.
I am on the bed.
Here, drink this.
There is a glass of water in my hand.
Come on, drink.
I can’t grip the glass with my invisible hands.
You need some water, Enola. You won’t get your breath back if you don’t stop crying. Relax, honey. Relax. He took a sip and lay me back. He pressed his mouth to mine and released the water. He did it three more times, touching my skin like it was tracing paper. I thanked him for feeding me like a bird. He smiled and told me that I was welcome.
OUR BODIES STAYED ENTWINEDuntil the light shone through the blinds. I felt suction when we separated. Holding the duvet over his mouth to hide his breath, he asked if he could buy me breakfast.
I got dressed and thought about telling Ruth what happened but I didn’t want her to think that he was abusive, the same way that I didn’t want him to think that I was making myself the victim. It wasn’t like he hit me; it was a flat palm and I had slapped him first. He was only guilty of being a man.
Ready?
He was stood in the doorway in his olive-green shirt, silver chain, denim jacket, and black jeans. The same outfit he wore when he came to my flat for the first time.
The sun was shining, and we walked to the café chatting about things we could see: a new restaurant, graffiti on a wall, a cute dog.But then he stopped us in the middle of the pavement, looked into my eyes, and kissed me. I knew then that everything would be okay. He took my hand and we continued walking in silence.
He got us a table while I went downstairs to the bathroom. The cubicles smelled of sandalwood and jazz played from individual speakers in the ceiling. When I returned, he would show me a video that he had found while waiting. Otters in a lake perhaps, or someone falling down. The latter I would shake my head at, and he would roll his eyes affectionately.Affectionately. How differently the same action could impact. I looked in the mirror and—
IAM STANDING INfront of the mirror in the beach house. Mum is putting calamine lotion on my back. I am crying, and she tells me to stay still. But the itching is too bad.Stop it, Enola, just stop it.She smacks me, and I hit my forehead on the corner of the cabinet. The next day she sees the bruise and asks me how it happened. I tell her that I fell in the pool.
THE MEMORY FINISHED WITHthe whirring of a hand dryer in the next-door cubicle. My childhood self was a saboteur presenting a rose-tinted reality the shade of a petal, the kind that she picked from the garden and scrunched into water to make perfume for her mother. I looked at my reflection now, but there was no bruise. I lifted my hand and brought it to my cheek, hitting myself again and again as a saxophone wailed above the toilet.Here you go, Mum, look what I made you.
CHAPTER 16
It’s been thirty minutes, but the painkillers haven’t kicked in. My head still hurts, and my stomach is unsteady. I check my smashed phone, but there are no new messages. Outside, the mist has risen, and, lit up in white lights, the jagged tip of the Shard is a constellation. But if I shift focus, my reflection appears, ghostlike on the London skyline. It looks like I’m not really here. Perhaps I’m still staring at the plastic bag on the welcome mat? But if that’s true, then I am also still standing on the tube platform last night, looking at the white threads in his jacket, wondering what to do. If universes sprout from moments of indecision, then I have created hundreds. Amy once told me that I need to learn how to end a story:Babe, no offense, but I’m just not confident you’ll get us where we need to go.
IT WASWEDNESDAY NIGHT. The day had bled from the room, but I hadn’t turned the lights on. It was just after eight. Mum and Paul would be a bottle in. Cheese board littered with rinds, terra-cotta pot soaking in the sink, two glasses, one with a lipstick print around the rim. I had eaten a scotch egg and taken two painkillers with a glass of supermarket wine.
He was coming over at ten. He said he was at work, which meant that he was either at the bar or writing. He just said “work,” and I didn’t want to askwhichwork in case he accused me of being passive-aggressive.
Just before nine, the phone rang, and I let it vibrate three times before answering, like I was playing chicken.
