What Lies Between Us(2)
Outside, a red car with a dent in the front bumper parks on the grass verge by the telegraph pole. It’s Louise at number eighteen and when she exits, I can see the swell of her belly under her T-shirt. She’s pregnant again and I’m delighted for her. She reached this stage once before, then one day, an ambulance arrived at her house and the next time I saw her, she had suddenly just stopped being pregnant. Her body returned to its normal shape as if nothing had happened. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have to ‘untell’ people. I don’t think you can ever be normal again after losing something you were so looking forward to loving.
I wonder if she is still working part-time at the cash and carry. I haven’t seen her wearing her uniform for a while. I know that her husband is still a cabbie because his taxi’s headlights frequently flash across my ceiling when he arrives home after a night shift. Sometimes if I can’t sleep, I’ll watch his shadow behind the wheel, engine switched off, his face barely illuminated by the dashboard. I often wonder, what prevents him from going inside straight away? Perhaps he’s imagining a different life to the one beyond that front door. I can understand that; I often imagine my own alternative existence. But like that old song goes, you can’t always get what you want.
There’s nobody else to look at so I turn to face my room. There isn’t much in here, but then I don’t need a lot. A double bed, two side tables, two lamps, a wardrobe, a dressing table and an ottoman. The wall-mounted television has long since ceased to work and I haven’t asked Nina for a new one because I don’t want her to think I’m missing it. And without it, I’m no longer reminded of how much life I’m lacking.
I have my books to keep me company and sometimes I can convince myself they’re enough. I don’t get to pick what I read – I’m reliant on what she brings home for me. Every couple of days, I’ll start and finish a brand-new one. I prefer detective or psychological thrillers, anything that promises and then delivers a twist. I like to get the old grey matter working and decipher who the bad guy is. I’m hard to please though. If I guess the culprit correctly, I’ll be disappointed at how predictable the story is. If I get it wrong, I’ll be annoyed at myself for not spotting it earlier.
I’d like to have written a book. I have many stories inside me and just as many secrets. But I doubt it will happen. A lot of things won’t, like me leaving this house again. Try as I might, I just cannot manage it. And it’s my own fault. I don’t believe anyone who claims to have no regrets. They’re lying to themselves. We all have them. If I was given the opportunity to go back and change something about my life, I’d be in that time machine quicker than you could say H. G. Wells.
Suddenly, I hear a door opening downstairs, then a voice. I must have missed her as she walked up the road.
‘Good evening,’ Nina shouts up the stairs from the first floor. ‘Anyone there?’
‘Yes, only me,’ I reply and open the bedroom door. From where I stand under the architrave I spot two bulging carrier bags by her feet. ‘Been shopping?’
‘Very observant,’ she replies.
‘Have you had a good day at work?’
‘The same as usual. I’m making chicken chasseur for dinner.’
I hate chicken chasseur. ‘Sounds lovely,’ I say. ‘Is it my turn to eat with you tonight?’
‘Yes, it’s Tuesday.’
‘Ah, I thought it was Wednesday. I’m getting ahead of myself.’
‘I’ll come and get you when it’s ready. It shouldn’t be long.’
‘Okay,’ I reply, and return to my room as she disappears from view.
I pause to count the liver spots on my hands. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the sun that there are no new ones forming. That’s a small plus among a long list of minuses. I take in my reflection in the dressing table’s mirror and flatten down my unruly hair. It’s been silver for so long now that I cannot visualise the colour it was before. Then I use a medium-red lipstick to paint on a smile, then add a little eyeliner. I dab blusher on to my cheeks but because my skin is so white, it resembles two red splodges daubed on a rag doll. So I wipe them off and leave my face bare.
I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the night ahead. Once upon a time we were the best of friends. But that was before he destroyed everything. Now the two of us are little more than the debris he left behind.
CHAPTER 2
NINA
I remove the glass lid from the dish on the bottom shelf of the oven and steam pours out. Inside, the chicken breasts appear white in colour and I prod them with a fork to check they’re done. I know Maggie doesn’t like chicken chasseur, but I do, and she’s not the one who cooks in this house. Besides, her fake enthusiasm is amusing to me.
I empty the shopping bags before I take my coat off. She prefers neatly stacked cupboards and tidy drawers; I don’t. I save my neatness and order for the workplace where I have no choice but to be organised. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to in my own home. So I place the groceries wherever suits me best. Maggie isn’t likely to rearrange them behind my back.
Sainsbury’s was busy tonight, even more so than usual. Families were out in force; armies of beleaguered parents trying to do the weekly shop accompanied by sleeve-tugging children whining and demanding sweets, toys and comics. I watched some of these mothers, frazzled and rolling their eyes, thinking they didn’t know how lucky they were.