something.” He took another chip and munched on it, his eyes still on me.
“Go on,” I said, thinking it didn’t sound good.
“It’s just between you and me. All right?”
“Yes, of course.”
I didn’t know what I thought it was. I just knew it was going to be something else that was going to change everything. The moment had that feel about it, that before-and-after feel, as though this was going to be the end of one time and the beginning of another.
My hair hung around my face and shoulders, sticky with the salt wind, full of bits of sand, blown into a thick brittle cloud like dark brown cotton candy. He reached out and tried to put his hand through it, but couldn’t. It made him laugh. He looked out to the street again, at the police car parked outside and at the rain that had started lashing the window. Then he looked back to me and took my hand in his.
“It’s just that I love you,” he said. “That’s all.”
My heart soared, of course it did, and from then on every time I looked at him and remembered him saying it my heart jumped and everything in me wanted to smile and yell about it.
But there was something else. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been about to tell me something else, something completely different, something bad; and at the last moment he’d changed his mind.
Wednesday 5 December 2007
I was getting ready for bed and I made the mistake of checking, just once more. It was almost like a guilty pleasure, something I was going to permit myself to do, to help me feel totally safe before I went to sleep. But doing it on an empty stomach, having had little sleep for the past few nights, wasn’t a good idea. I got stuck again. Each time I checked, I did it wrong somehow, lost count, didn’t do things in exactly the right order, didn’t have my hand on the door for long enough, it just didn’t feel right.
Hour after hour, I started again and again and again . . . I had a shower at about one in the morning to try to wake myself up a bit, shivering when I got out. I put on sneakers and a T-shirt and started again at the flat door.
Still no good. I ended up sitting by the door, my head on my knees, sobbing and shaking, making such a racket that I didn’t hear him coming up the stairs. He knocked on the door and made me jump out of my skin.
“Cathy? It’s me. Are you okay?”
I couldn’t reply, I just gasped and sobbed. He was just on the other side of the door.
“What’s happened?” he said, louder this time. “Cathy? Can you let me in?”
After a moment I just said, “I’m okay, go away. Please—just go away.”
I waited for the sound of footsteps going upstairs, but they didn’t come. And a few moments later, the sound of him sitting down on the landing outside my door. I cried harder, although not so much with fear as fury, fury at him taking control of my panic, blocking the door, interrupting whatever I could have conceivably done to protect myself. Ironically enough, though, I wasn’t trapped anymore. It’s the same when Mrs. Mackenzie interrupts the checking downstairs.
I crawled away from the door and sat on the carpet looking at it, thinking of him sitting outside. What on earth must he think of me?
I cleared my throat and spoke as clearly and firmly as I could. “I’m all right now.”
I heard shuffling as he got to his feet. “Are you?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He coughed. “Do you want anything? Shall I make you a cup of tea, or something like that?”
“No. I’m all right.” It felt like madness, talking to my door.
“Okay.”
There was a pause, as though he was uncertain whether to believe me, then finally the sound of footsteps on the stairs up to the top floor.
Monday 8 December 2003
I had contemplated taking Monday off, or even phoning in sick and spending the day in bed with Lee.
If he’d stayed in bed it would have been too tempting to get back under the covers, but he got up when I went to have a shower, and by the
“Go on,” I said, thinking it didn’t sound good.
“It’s just between you and me. All right?”
“Yes, of course.”
I didn’t know what I thought it was. I just knew it was going to be something else that was going to change everything. The moment had that feel about it, that before-and-after feel, as though this was going to be the end of one time and the beginning of another.
My hair hung around my face and shoulders, sticky with the salt wind, full of bits of sand, blown into a thick brittle cloud like dark brown cotton candy. He reached out and tried to put his hand through it, but couldn’t. It made him laugh. He looked out to the street again, at the police car parked outside and at the rain that had started lashing the window. Then he looked back to me and took my hand in his.
“It’s just that I love you,” he said. “That’s all.”
My heart soared, of course it did, and from then on every time I looked at him and remembered him saying it my heart jumped and everything in me wanted to smile and yell about it.
But there was something else. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been about to tell me something else, something completely different, something bad; and at the last moment he’d changed his mind.
Wednesday 5 December 2007
I was getting ready for bed and I made the mistake of checking, just once more. It was almost like a guilty pleasure, something I was going to permit myself to do, to help me feel totally safe before I went to sleep. But doing it on an empty stomach, having had little sleep for the past few nights, wasn’t a good idea. I got stuck again. Each time I checked, I did it wrong somehow, lost count, didn’t do things in exactly the right order, didn’t have my hand on the door for long enough, it just didn’t feel right.
Hour after hour, I started again and again and again . . . I had a shower at about one in the morning to try to wake myself up a bit, shivering when I got out. I put on sneakers and a T-shirt and started again at the flat door.
Still no good. I ended up sitting by the door, my head on my knees, sobbing and shaking, making such a racket that I didn’t hear him coming up the stairs. He knocked on the door and made me jump out of my skin.
“Cathy? It’s me. Are you okay?”
I couldn’t reply, I just gasped and sobbed. He was just on the other side of the door.
“What’s happened?” he said, louder this time. “Cathy? Can you let me in?”
After a moment I just said, “I’m okay, go away. Please—just go away.”
I waited for the sound of footsteps going upstairs, but they didn’t come. And a few moments later, the sound of him sitting down on the landing outside my door. I cried harder, although not so much with fear as fury, fury at him taking control of my panic, blocking the door, interrupting whatever I could have conceivably done to protect myself. Ironically enough, though, I wasn’t trapped anymore. It’s the same when Mrs. Mackenzie interrupts the checking downstairs.
I crawled away from the door and sat on the carpet looking at it, thinking of him sitting outside. What on earth must he think of me?
I cleared my throat and spoke as clearly and firmly as I could. “I’m all right now.”
I heard shuffling as he got to his feet. “Are you?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He coughed. “Do you want anything? Shall I make you a cup of tea, or something like that?”
“No. I’m all right.” It felt like madness, talking to my door.
“Okay.”
There was a pause, as though he was uncertain whether to believe me, then finally the sound of footsteps on the stairs up to the top floor.
Monday 8 December 2003
I had contemplated taking Monday off, or even phoning in sick and spending the day in bed with Lee.
If he’d stayed in bed it would have been too tempting to get back under the covers, but he got up when I went to have a shower, and by the
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