Bright Burning Things(52)

My body stiffens; I stink, need to stand under a shower, alone, but don’t want him not to want to be with me. He pulls my hair back off my face and kisses my cheek. Who is this carefree version of David? It’s as if he transferred all his uptightness into me last night – he should be mortified by what just happened. He should be very worried about what he just did.

‘Can I make you breakfast?’

I manage a polite ‘I’ll do it after my shower.’

‘Don’t bother your pretty head with that.’

What script is he following now? I walk as slowly as I can manage, when every part of me wants to run. As soon as I’m inside the bathroom I lock the door. The shower is as hot and the flow as hard as my skin will allow. I massage my coconut-and-lime Tesco special-offer shampoo into my scalp, a cheap waft of suds permeating my everything.

I cover myself in a big bath towel, scurry to the bedroom, wishing I could lock the door. What to wear? Decide on a demure look: checked shirt and jeans, barefoot, light touch of make-up. He wolf-whistles when I walk into the kitchen. I’m offended, but only slightly, more alarmed than anything. I should have seen it: he has a love/sex-addict thing going on. Isn’t this why there are strict guidelines in recovery? The danger of swapping one addiction for another. David has over ten years in sobriety, so he should be able to handle intimacy, although regarding him now, there’s no doubt that dopamine, or some other highly addictive feel-good chemical, has been triggered in his brain. His eyes are shining and faraway and it’s obvious he’s inhabiting some other world.

I haven’t worked out the exact shape of his fantasy yet but am certain it involves some form of conquest: Fair Maiden. Has he cast himself as a conquering master, hero, servant, slave? I really want him out of my house. The smell of the eggs is making me sick. He serves me a heap of scrambled on soggy toast, lots of pepper. He doesn’t even ask, just twists away at the grinder. Everything about him is irritating: his stupid happy whistling, his long skinny legs, the memory of them wrapped around me, almost choking me, his ridiculous smile. I want the old David back, the one I craved to touch, because he was out of bounds.

‘Are you ok, Sonya? You’re very pale.’

‘I’m not hungry, sorry.’ I push the plate away. ‘Didn’t sleep very well… Not great when I don’t sleep.’ Trying to minimise the chaotic, jangled emotions that are spilling about.

‘Would you like me to go now, give you your space?’

‘Might be a good idea. Feeling a little overwhelmed.’ The most honesty I’ve managed in years.

‘I’ll just finish my coffee and eggs, then I’ll be on my way.’

My breathing slows down, the tightness in my chest loosens. He eats and drinks at a leisurely pace.

‘Ok so, I’ll head off. See you soon. Thanks for a lovely evening.’ He kisses me gently on both cheeks.

I’m grateful I don’t have to force him to leave, as I had to many times with Howard, particularly on those Sundays when he decided he wanted to hang out with me all day. Sometimes I actively had to push him out the front door. ‘Fuck off, Howard,’ I’d say. ‘Psycho,’ he’d fling at me. Then, after he’d leave, I’d spend the day feeling bereft.

‘You’re miles away, Sonya.’

‘Sorry. Tired is all.’

‘Chat later. Sleep well so.’

He walks jauntily down the garden path, lifting his hand in greeting to someone on the opposite side of the street. When I pull back the slats on the blind, I see that it’s Mrs O’Malley. Good, let her think I’m a woman capable of being loved, or a gigantic slut – don’t care which, as long as it makes her back off.

‘Thank God he’s gone, Marmie!’ I change the bedclothes, open the window, fill a hot water bottle, creep back into bed, place the bottle at my lower back, Marmie on my chest. My body closes down, a series of internal doors shutting, locking. I reach down and place a protective hand on my crotch. I’m disgusted by what my body allowed. It’s not even a religious thing, or a moral thing; I don’t know what kind of a thing.

When I wake five hours later my mind is less frantic. I check my phone: four messages from David. Thank you, hope you’re ok, call me when you wake, that was amazing you are amazing. We’re ok, aren’t we? It’s as if I’ve just released a needy, sex-starved Jack right out of his box.


I get up, eat some dry cornflakes by the handful, wrap Marmie in the pouch and walk to the park. The wind is skittish, the sky a mottled feast of blues and whites. Where is Tommy today? Is he out under this same sky? Is he searching for Mr Sunshine, pretending to wipe away the clouds? I watch a seagull swoop on to the pond and scavenge the ducks’ bread. A man claps at the air: ‘Shooo.’ Silly man, can’t he see the seagull needs to eat too? The colour of ice cream, Yaya! I wonder if my body will allow me to continue to stand.





33


Forty-eight hours have passed, and no word from my father. Of course. Time to take matters into my own hands. Drive to the ‘decent sort’ from golf’s house, solicitor Whatshisface. I memorised his address that night I looked him up, straight after Lara let the word slip.

It’s a twenty-minute drive under cover of early-evening darkness. The house materialises like something out of a fairy tale, all fake Gothic turrets, stucco, soft pink. A pink candyfloss house, Yaya! A fountain, two BMWs, a dog pen, a kennel. Heat blasts my body, my skin hot and blotchy, as if torched. I’m surprised to find the electric gates open, but park outside, just in case. My hoodie is pulled high over my ears, despite the fact I might combust with the revving of my internal engine. ‘Herbie,’ I whisper, ‘Herbie, my man?’ I think I hear whimpers; he’d be a shit guard dog, in spite of his size; he’s a big softie, anyone could tell that. Anyone who cared to look closely.