Our Kind of Cruelty(13)

In the days it took for the lump on my head to disappear I felt the need to prove myself at work, so found myself staying late. On Tuesday I didn’t leave until 10 p.m. The night was warm, and there were people all over the streets, spilling out of pubs and restaurants, their arms wrapped around each other. And all at once I missed V with a sharp, stabbing pain, as if someone had stuck a knife between my ribs. I wanted to go to her house and knock on the door and tell her I didn’t want to play any more. I wanted to cut to the end of the Crave, to the part where we’re together in bed and laughing at the rest of the world. I wanted to fall at her feet and tell her I understood, that I deserved my punishment, but it was enough now, I would never do anything remotely like that again, I would never even leave her side.

I found myself walking towards Kensington, a journey my iPhone told me was 4.8 miles and would take me eighty-nine minutes. It wasn’t a ludicrous distance. It was almost on the way home. I hummed through Oasis’s Definitely Maybe as I walked, filling my head with the noise. It only took me seventy-three minutes to get to Elizabeth Road, but I am a fast walker. Number 24 was about halfway down and as grand and imposing as I had feared, with newly refreshed paintwork and gleaming black and white tiles on the pathway and up the steps. A large black lantern hung in the porch, switched on and shining brightly out of the spotless glass.

Angus, I realised, must be extremely rich, far richer than me, a thought which made me want to sit down in the street. I crossed the road to a darker corner in case anyone looked out of the window, and fished out my phone. Zoopla told me the house had been bought five years before for ￡3.2 million; its estimated worth was now ￡8.1 million.

Lights were on in the front room, although the white shutters were closed, so there was nothing to see. I had the very strong sense that V was in there, moving around in the rooms beyond, perhaps even thinking of me. Maybe she was unhappy; maybe she too was regretting starting this game. It was entirely possible that her unhappiness had drawn me here because our connection was so strong. It seemed absurd that I could simply cross the road and knock on the door and she would be revealed to me. I hesitated on the kerb, my feet half on, half off, rocking with the thought. But the likelihood was that Angus would be home, and although his part in the Crave wasn’t entirely clear to me yet, I didn’t think it involved a doorstep argument. V had other plans for him, of that I felt sure.

A light flicked on in an upstairs room and I saw a figure pull some heavy curtains across the window. My heart jumped into my mouth and my hand reached uselessly upwards, as if to wave. Even though I’d only got a shadowy glimpse of the person, I knew it was V. ‘I’m here, my darling,’ I whispered into the night. ‘I’m coming to save you.’ She had felt me; I knew that then. She might not have known for certain I was standing on the street outside her door, but something had pulled her upstairs and to the window. Something had compelled her to give me that sign.

I don’t remember getting home that night or how I broke the wine glasses. I went into the kitchen after my run the next morning to get a glass of water and there was a pile of glass in the corner by the bifold doors. I turned and there were three glasses missing from my open shelves. I reached out for one and realised if I had turned and thrown it immediately it would have landed right where the pile of glass now was. There was something familiar in the movement and there was a certain pleasure to be found in imagining myself being so reckless. But the actual memory was absent.

‘I know, I know, sorry, V,’ I said as I got the dustpan and brush from under the sink. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll hoover afterwards. I don’t want you getting any glass in your feet.’

After that I showered, shutting my eyes against the water, but still I couldn’t shake an uncomfortable feeling of dislocation. I towelled my body and felt a bit better because my muscles reminded me that I am strong and in control. But the house still felt so empty when I came out on to the landing, dressed for the day. I knew I only had to walk down the stairs, put on my coat, pick up my phone and briefcase and leave, but still it felt scary. As if my only actions could be ones I knew by heart. Actions I would repeat again and again and again, meaninglessly. My mind jumped forward to the winter and I saw myself doing all these same tasks in the dark. Without V anchoring me, I realised suddenly, it didn’t matter how strong I was, I was still very capable of floating clean away.

‘See you later,’ I shouted as I shut the door behind me, which made me feel somewhat better. An image followed me all the way to work of V asleep in our huge bed, with the linen sheets she liked and the mohair rug on the end. I had even invested in those pointless pillows which you see on beds in magazines that I simply threw on to the floor every night and replaced every morning. But V had had them on our bed in our flat and she always seemed to judge hotels by the number of extra pillows they provided.

V didn’t have to be at work until 9.30 a.m., so it was entirely feasible that when she moved in she would be able to have an extra half-hour in bed after I left. Or maybe she would go to the kitchen and use the coffee machine to make one of her beloved espressos, which she would take back to bed. I was glad I had hoovered, in case she wanted to stand by the back doors and look out over the garden while she sipped her coffee.

I hadn’t, I realised, cooked properly since I’d moved in and that was a shame as I liked cooking. I resolved to buy some ingredients on my way home that evening and christen the kitchen with a proper meal. I reasoned that might make it feel more like home.