The Dare, page 20
‘I have, but I left my hair straighteners behind. I popped round to pick them up. Oh, Lizzie, I was so worried when I found you lying on the floor.’
‘Oh, was it you who found me? I thought Ross said—’
‘Well, I was the one who got home from work first. Ross came in a few minutes after. You poor thing. But Ross tells me the baby is fine, that they’ve checked you over and no harm has been done. What a relief.’
Sweat prickles at the back of my neck. Nothing about her seems genuine any more. When I think of how remorseful she’s been, how keen to get close to me, to be my friend. How could I have been so easily fooled?
‘Thank goodness you found me when you did,’ I say, trying to arrange my face into an expression of gratitude, aware of a pulse throbbing in my left eyelid, a flush of heat staining my cheeks. She’ll notice it, surely she will.
Ross has now come upstairs and is standing with us on the landing.
‘The important thing is that we did find you,’ she says. ‘And that you and the baby are both fine.’ She glances at Ross. ‘It’s been a worrying twenty-four hours, that’s for sure.’
I watch their faces. Is that some kind of coded joke between the two of them? Were they really worrying about my health, or were they more concerned about whether I was on to them?
Ross nods in agreement. He looks paler than normal. Weaker, somehow. I may be clutching at straws, but I have the distinct impression he’s scared of her, too, that for some inexplicable reason, he’s dancing to her tune. He might be the big, strong, rugby-playing doctor, but Catherine is firmly in control here. I’m in no doubt about that. She has some kind of hold over him, I’m sure of it.
She goes into the spare room and comes out again with her straighteners.
‘Can’t live without these things,’ she says, smiling broadly. ‘See you tomorrow at work, Ross. And Lizzie, I’ll ring you in a few days. When you’re feeling better.’
‘Yes, that’ll be nice,’ I say, knowing that, in a few days’ time, I won’t be here. Can she see it in my face?
We all troop downstairs and say goodbye.
‘Catherine?’ I say, as she’s about to leave, trying to keep my voice as light and casual as I can. ‘Did you give Ross the spare keys back?’
She pauses for a beat too long. A flicker of irritation passes across her forehead, but then she delves into her handbag and produces them with a flourish. As the front door closes behind her, Ross visibly relaxes.
Maybe I should confront him right now? Tell him what I know. All the time I’ve been with Ross, I’ve never been scared of him. He’s made me feel safe. Protected. Maybe it was all acting, but I can’t believe he’d willingly do anything to hurt me or the baby.
But every time I’m about to say the words, something stops me, because however hard I try to convince myself that he’s on my side, I realize I don’t know this man at all. I have absolutely no idea what he’s capable of. And do I really want him on my side, after all the lies he’s told me?
No, I am not going to rock this boat until I’m well and truly on dry land. He’s still deceived me in the most insidious way. He’s still an unknown danger to me and the baby.
I watch, surreptitiously, as Ross gets ready for bed. I’m pretending to read, but every so often I raise my eyes to steal a glance at him as he discards his clothes on to the chair. This will be the very last time I see him do this and, despite everything, I feel a rush of emotion. Love, it seems, cannot be turned off like a tap, no matter how serious the betrayal, no matter how deep the hurt.
I scan back over those early moments in our relationship. How giddy and swept up I’d been in the romance of it all, how much I’d wanted to be loved. Our first meeting in the café in Dovercourt. The subsequent walks on the beach. Was spilling his coffee on my boots a deliberate ploy? How did they know where to find me?
He gets into bed and spoons my back, his arm resting gently on my bump, his breath warm on the nape of my neck. How is it possible to love someone and hate them at the same time, to hold two different versions of them in your head?
His hands move slowly and gently up to my breasts, just as they’ve done so many times before. I want to push him away. I want to scream at him to stop, to get up and leave right now, but all I can do is lie here, entwined with this stranger. This imposter. Allow him to make love to me as if nothing has changed.
I could say no. Tell him I’m too tired. Too ill. Because I am. I’m both of those things. He’s never pressured me into sex, not once. But something tells me that now is not the time to refuse, that keeping him on side and confident of my love, my desire for him, is more important than ever. Sex is a language all of its own. If my body fails to communicate in its normal way, he’ll know something’s wrong.
So I let him enter me for the last time, willing myself not to cry. I let him push into me again and again, arching my back like I usually do, pressing into him and going through the familiar motions. I even make the same noises. The little sighs and gasps. Because I can play-act, too. I have to.
When it’s over, I lie with my back to him, tears flowing silently down my face. I wish I could shower every last molecule of him out of my body.
Except I can’t, can I? I’m carrying his baby. Our baby.
My baby. My little girl. I place my hand protectively on my tummy and tell myself to be strong for her sake. Under my bed is a canvas tote bag I packed earlier, with my purse, my old house keys, the meds I found in my rucksack and a change of clothes. There are so many other things I’d like to take with me, but the most important thing is to get away. As fast as I can, unencumbered by possessions that will only slow me down.
As soon as I think it’s safe, I’ll get up and creep downstairs. Change into my jeans and jumper, grab my coat from the hook and get the hell out of here as fast as I can.
50
All the time Catherine was here, Ross’s sleeping pattern was badly disrupted. He’d tossed and turned, sighed and fidgeted. Tonight, though, he falls asleep almost straightaway and is snoring within minutes. Even so, I want to be absolutely sure he’s in a really deep sleep before I venture downstairs.
I ease myself gently into a sitting position and pinch the flesh of my forearm with my fingernails, keep them embedded so that I don’t fall asleep while I’m waiting. I’ll have a nasty bruise in the morning.
Eventually, when I see the rapid movement of his eyes beneath his eyelids, I reach down to the side and slide out the tote bag from beneath the bed. Then I get up carefully and approach the bedroom door, my eyes not daring to leave the sleeping form of Ross, whose right shoulder is sticking out of the duvet. He’s turned away from the door, thank God. I’m glad I can’t see his face.
I depress the handle as quietly as I can and step into the darkness of the landing, my ears pricked for sound – a change in his breathing pattern, the squeak of the mattress. Nothing. I close the door softly.
This is it. I’m going. The next time I return, it’ll be with Mum and Dad, to get the rest of my things.
With trepidation, I hold on to the stair rail and lower myself on to the top step. Every single creak, every single breath, sounds magnified in the silence. I pause after each couple of steps and listen. By the time I approach the bottom, I’m rigid with tension.
The shrill ring of the landline jolts through me like an electric shock. I stumble down the last few steps, frustration and fear like a physical pain in my chest. Fuck! There’s no way he’ll sleep through that.
For a few seconds, I’m paralysed by indecision. Either I leave right now in my pyjamas, knowing that Ross will wake up and find me gone almost straightaway, maybe even come running after me, or I answer the phone myself and make out I was on my way down for a glass of water.
But it’s too late. The phone stops ringing and I hear Ross’s voice from upstairs. The bedroom door opens and the landing light comes on. Shit! I should have just gone while I had the chance.
Suddenly, he’s at the top of the stairs. I head for the kitchen, heart thumping. I’m going to have to wait till morning now, when he’s gone to work. I should have done that anyway. It’s madness to be creeping about like this in the middle of the night like some kind of criminal, but the urge to leave was overwhelming. It still is. It isn’t till I’m standing at the kitchen sink that I realize I still have the bulging tote bag over my shoulder.
I open the cupboard where we keep the saucepans and stuff it right at the back, out of sight. Then I quickly run the cold tap and take a glass from the draining board, hands shaking so much it’s a miracle I don’t drop it.
Ross comes downstairs and into the kitchen. He’s listening intently, with only the occasional interjection of a ‘Yes, I see, thank you,’ or ‘Okay’. At last, the call finishes. He drops the phone into the pocket of his dressing gown and rubs his hands over his face.
‘That was the nursing home,’ he says. His voice is weary and resigned. ‘My dad’s just died.’
‘Oh no, I’m so sorry.’ The words are automatic, because I am sorry. Whatever lies Ross has told me, this isn’t one of them. His relationship with his father was complicated, I know that. But I’ve heard it said that loss can hit a person harder in such cases and, by the look on his face, that’s true.
He moistens his lips with his tongue. ‘I’m going to have to go to Aberdeen to sort things out.’ He glances at the kitchen clock. ‘I’ll try and get a couple more hours’ sleep and then I’ll drive to the airport, catch the first flight up there. The sooner I can sort things out, the better.’
I step towards him and give him a hug. Actually, this has worked out much better for me. If Ross leaves for Aberdeen first thing in the morning, I can pack properly. I can make sure I’ve got everything I need and call a taxi when I’m ready. Now that Catherine is out of the way, I don’t have to worry any more.
‘Actually,’ he says, ‘why don’t you come with me? We could make a weekend of it.’ I go very still in his arms. ‘I don’t like the thought of leaving you on your own, not when you’ve so recently had another seizure.’
I take a step back and shake my head. ‘No, you go on your own. I’m not sure I’m up to rushing around yet.’ I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
He takes my face in his hands and looks deep into my eyes. I used to think it was so romantic when he did this, but now it seems false. Controlling. He kisses me gently on the lips.
‘You don’t have to come to the nursing home if you’re not feeling up to it. We can check into a hotel and you can stay there and pamper yourself. Order room service. We can eat out in the evening. Go somewhere nice. You’ve always wanted to see the place where I was born.’
Shit. How ironic that when I wanted to go to Aberdeen with him before, he put me off. Now, when it’s the very last thing I want to do, he’s all up for it. The thing is, if I say I’m too poorly for the journey, he may well delay going up for a couple more days. With no way of speaking to Mum and Dad until they ring me, I’ll be stuck here with him.
‘I’d love to come with you, Ross, I really would. But I’ve got an antenatal appointment with the community midwife tomorrow and I don’t want to rearrange at such short notice.’
I turn away from him to pick up my glass of water, praying he won’t notice how my cheeks have started to redden at the lie.
‘Oh, I didn’t know about that,’ he says. He’s tugging gently at his chin when I face him again. ‘But they won’t mind, will they?’
‘No, but I will. Especially after what’s just happened. I don’t want to have to wait for the next appointment. It might take weeks.’ I put my hands on the front of his shoulders. ‘Besides, I want to spend a proper weekend in Aberdeen with you, look round the city together. We can go up another time, when you can spend more time with me.’
He sighs, but I think – I hope – I’ve convinced him.
‘I guess you’re right,’ he says.
I smile. ‘I’m always right.’
Ross pours a finger of whisky into a tumbler. ‘To the aul’ bastard,’ he says, raising his glass and giving me a sad little smile.
I raise my water in the air and we chink our glasses.
‘To the aul’ bastard,’ I say, looking deep into Ross’s eyes.
Catherine went crazy when I asked her to leave. When I told her to leave. Crazier than when she’d found out about the pregnancy even, and that was some kind of crazy, let me tell you. I told her I couldn’t keep doing this for the rest of my life – indulging her vengeful fantasies – and that it was time I stood up for myself. I was developing feelings for Lizzie. Uncomfortable, messy feelings. The sort of feelings I’d never experienced before, but which somehow felt … right. Playing the loving fiancé role was becoming both easier and harder than it had ever been. Easier because it came so naturally now. Harder because I didn’t actually want to play any more.
Sometimes, at work, I’d draw Lizzie’s photo towards me – the one I kept in a frame on my desk. It’s a casual, unposed snap that captures her mid-laugh, her blue eyes smiling in the sun, a pretty smattering of freckles across her nose and the tops of her cheeks. Who’d have thought that Lizzie Molyneux would turn out to be so beautiful? No wonder Catherine hated it. No wonder she used to turn the photo face down whenever she came into my consulting room.
She said she’d tell Lizzie everything and I said I didn’t care. I was going to tell her anyway. Tell her how I’d been manipulated and controlled since I was a little boy. Catherine didn’t like that. She didn’t like that one little bit because it was true and there was nothing she could say to make it otherwise.
I felt invincible then. Able to deal with whatever crap she threw at me, even when she ambushed me in the middle of the night wearing nothing but her silky bedshorts and beckoning me into her bed, because I knew damn well that if I didn’t make a stand, I’d never be free of her. Never.
And it was Lizzie I wanted now. Lizzie and the baby.
51
I wake from a deep, dreamless sleep. The early-morning sun streams through a gap in the curtains. I blink and turn away from the light. It feels like I’ve been asleep for years and years, curled up in the same foetal position.
I squint at the time on Ross’s clock radio: 9.27. I’ve slept right through the night. I’m still here. I struggle into a sitting position and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Fuck!
But as soon as my feet touch the floor, the memory lands like a dart behind my eyes. I fall back on to the bed, relief flooding through me. Ross’s father has died. He’s gone to Aberdeen. I can get up when I’m ready and pack properly, call a taxi to take me to the station. I’ll be home in Dovercourt by the early afternoon.
I roll on to my back and stretch out like a cat. I can’t believe I fell asleep again, not with all the drama last night. But after Ross and I came back to bed, he talked to me about his father and what kind of a man he was, what it was like for him in the days after his mother died. It was the first time he’s ever spoken to me in detail about that time. It felt almost as if he was working himself up to something more, maybe even a confession, and I wanted so much to hear it. I wanted so much to understand.
But his voice was deep and low, a soothing monotone in my ears as he stroked my back gently with his fingers. I must have drifted off. My body, still tired after the seizure, and my mind, no longer fraught now that I knew I’d have the house to myself in the morning, must have taken the decision for me and switched off, allowing me to sleep deeply and recuperate.
I get up out of bed and take a long draught of water from the glass on my bedside table. Then I go into the bathroom. I ought to shower. I feel hot and sticky, grubby too. But I make do with a quick wash instead. I know I don’t need to rush any more, but that doesn’t mean I want to stay here any longer than I need to. I can shower when I get to Mum and Dad’s.
The thought of showering in their bathroom, stepping out of the cubicle on to the tufted white bath mat and drying myself on one of their fluffy, tumble-dried towels, safe in the knowledge that I’m back home, makes me weak with longing. The sooner I call that taxi, the better.
Back in the bedroom, I change into a summer frock. Something loose and cool and comfortable. Then I pull down my rucksack and drag my suitcase out from under the bed. I won’t be able to pack everything, but at least I can take more than one change of clothes this time.
It’s actually a good thing that Mum and Dad won’t be there when I arrive. I’m not sure I could cope with their shock and anger. Their disappointment. I need time to let my own feelings out, to nurse my conflicted emotions in private, before having to deal with theirs, too.
When I’ve packed everything I can, I zip up the case and rucksack and start to carry them downstairs. All I have to do now is retrieve my tote bag from the saucepan cupboard where I stuffed it last night, pack the rest of my medication and call a taxi. I’ll write a note to Ross while I’m waiting for it to arrive.
God knows what I’ll say. He needs to be in no doubt whatsoever that we’re over, that there’s no way back from this. And I don’t want him guessing where I’ve gone and turning up on Mum and Dad’s doorstep while I’m on my own there.
I’m about halfway down the stairs when I sense something different about the house. A slight change in atmosphere. As if I’m not alone. Blood pulses in my ears. Every hair on my body stiffens.
‘Ross? Are you still here?’
No reply. Of course there isn’t. Ross left hours ago. I’m imagining things. I carry on down and dump my case by the front door.
I reach for the phone on the hall table, but my hand pauses mid-air. It’s not there. Why isn’t it there? It was definitely there last night, because the sound of it ringing almost made me fall down the last few steps. Maybe Ross used it this morning, to phone one of his colleagues and let them know he wouldn’t be in. He’s probably left it in the living room, like he usually does, but when I look for it, it isn’t there. I wrinkle my nose in distaste. I can still smell Catherine’s coconut oil from when she was here last night.
