Greenwich Park(34)

The new bathroom is the first thing that has made the building work seem at all worthwhile. It smells of cool tiles and fresh paint. I can hardly wait to fill the deep, roll-top bath, slip under the warm water and soak, looking out over the garden. Earlier, I arranged all my new things on the new driftwood shelves. I made them put some in at the last minute, after I saw Serena’s. Surely Daniel won’t notice a few little shelves that are the same as hers.

I run the water, go to fetch my book from where I left it, on the chair in the bay window. And that’s when I see her.

The first thing I wonder is why on earth is she tapping at the window? She looks even more waiflike than usual, her eyes red-rimmed. Her belly sticks out like there is something wrong with it. As if she is a starvation victim, instead of a pregnant woman. I wonder how long she has been standing there, looking into our front room at us.

‘Who’s that?’ Daniel shouts from the kitchen.

‘I think it’s Rachel.’ This is a stupid thing to say. I can see perfectly well that it is Rachel.

‘Rachel? What, your new friend Rachel? What’s she doing here at this hour?’

‘I don’t know.’

It’s only then I notice her neck. Three red welts in straight lines, like huge burns, the size and shape of fingers. Her eyes are bloodshot. She is biting at the skin around her thumbnail, twitchy and fearful.



‘Get rid of her, will you? It’s our anniversary.’ He is craning his neck, now, trying to see through from the kitchen, one hand on a saucepan.

‘I know,’ I say, waving at Rachel through the glass. ‘I’ll just see what she wants.’

When I open the door, it looks worse. For once, she doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me.

‘Rachel? Oh my goodness! What happened to your neck?’

Rachel opens her mouth to answer, then closes it again. Then she bolts into the house, pushing past me quickly, as if she is afraid of who might be following her.

Her anxiety is infectious. I glance right and left up and down the road, wondering if she has been followed by her assailant – whoever he is. But there is no one, just a couple of people with drinks outside the pub on the corner.

Rachel is stalking around in the front room. Her heavy footfalls on the floorboards cause the whisky glasses to jangle in the drinks cupboard, sending our cat, Monty, scampering up the stairs. She pulls out a cigarette, pats down the breast pockets of her denim jacket for a light. I open my mouth to ask that she smoke it outside. But something stops me. As I watch her struggling with the lighter, I notice her hands are trembling. Her right hand is swollen, pink and fat as a cat’s paw, with cuts all over the knuckles. As she walks up and down, I see there is a single red mark on the other side of her neck, too. The bruising is deep, angry, more like a burn. It makes me wince to look at it.

Rachel finally succeeds in lighting the cigarette. The smoke twists up towards Mummy’s chandeliers. She appears to have forgotten I am actually here. She is swearing, over and over, in short, foggy exhales.



‘Fuck,’ she is saying. ‘Fuck.’

In the kitchen, I hear that Daniel has switched off the radio and is turning down the gas on the hob. He strides into the front room, flipping a tea towel over his shoulder. I feel as if I am watching a traffic collision, one I am powerless to stop.

Rachel gives Daniel a pained smile. ‘Hi. You must be Daniel. Heard loads about you.’ She grimaces. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Sorry I’m such a mess. I just, um … Just need a minute.’

Rachel places her palm over her face, the cigarette still balanced between her index and middle finger. She lowers herself down to the ground until she is crouching, balanced on the chunky heels of her boots, and stares at the wall. Over her head, Daniel blinks at me. I shrug hopelessly. The smell of cigarette smoke starts to overwhelm the aroma of our anniversary meal browning on the stove. Behind Daniel, the candles on the table drip wax down the sides.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Daniel asks eventually, peering down at Rachel. He is staring at her neck. ‘A cup of tea, maybe, or a glass of –’

‘Yeah, a glass of water would be amazing. With ice and lemon, please. If you’ve got it.’

Silenced, Daniel returns to the kitchen.

‘Rachel?’

I feel awkward addressing Rachel when she is crouched on the floor. There’s nothing for it but to crouch down too. She won’t meet my eye, so I find myself addressing the bottom bookshelves next to where she is crouching.

‘Rachel,’ I plead. ‘What happened?’

Rachel winces, as if I’ve touched an open wound.

‘I had an argument with somebody,’ she croaks.



I hesitate. ‘Was it … the father? Is this because you told him?’

Rachel shakes her head. I don’t know if she means no, or that she just doesn’t want to talk about it. I look again at her neck and find myself involuntarily touching my own. Someone did that to her. I can barely comprehend it. A young, pregnant girl. In my world, such a thing feels unthinkable. But elsewhere, apparently, things are different.

I open my mouth, but before I can think of another question, Daniel reappears, holding a glass of water. He hands it over awkwardly, glancing down at Rachel’s bump.

Rachel stands, somewhat shakily, and takes the glass in her left hand, allowing the swollen hand to fall to her side. She mutters her thanks, then looks past Daniel at the laid table, the dimmed light.