The House Swap(35)

We stare at each other and it feels like it’s too much to bear, too intimate, like a crushing weight on the heart that knocks the breath from my body. His hand is between my legs and he’s stroking me softly at first, then harder, slipping his fingers inside me, and I don’t care if the neighbours hear the noise I’m making because there’s no control here, not any more, and I’m raising my hips off the bed and he forces them down with the flat of his free hand. It hurts, and I can’t tell if I like it or not, but it barely even matters, and for a few burning hot seconds there’s nothing in my head and I’m looking into his eyes and I’ve completely forgotten who I am.

Later, we get dressed and go out into the dark and sit drinking for a while in a crowded, red-lit bar. We speak about work, about our plans for the rest of the weekend. There’s no effort and no restraint and, despite everything, I can’t resist the delight that is sweeping its way through me. It’s too easy, too seductive. It wants me, and every cell in my body wants it back.

At the station, we stand at the back entrance against the low brick wall and hold each other tightly, my face pressed against the side of his neck. God, he says quietly, I want to fuck you, and the word sends surprise jolting electrically through me – as if my body is remembering that it can be used for something other than an insult, a means of telling me to get lost and leave someone alone. Excitement pulses through me. I lace my fingers through his, gripping on to his hand. I can’t speak, but I know he understands.

‘It isn’t just that, though.’ He pulls back slightly. ‘You know that, right? I really—’ He stops, half frowns in confusion, takes a short breath. ‘I really care about you,’ he says, and for all the dampened-down restraint of the word he has used, there’s something behind it that makes my heart constrict.

We stand there a little longer, watching each other. His eyes are kind and liquid, drinking me in. We kiss goodbye, and as we do there’s a sudden weird lift of vertigo … the brief, queasy realization that I’m in way over my head. I’m no longer sure what is happening here, or if I can contain it, and if there was a moment when I could have reined it in, then I guess I didn’t know it when I saw it. And now it’s too late.



Sometimes, these days, I find myself in the mood for destruction, and there’s nothing I can do about it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past couple of years, it’s that most possessions mean nothing. It doesn’t matter if you break them or tear them or burn them. They’re replaceable. Most of the time, I don’t bother replacing them, which shows how much I cared about them in the first place.

There’s a real power in that moment when you hold something in your hands and you know you can do what you want with it. There’s so much in life that comes on you hard and without warning. If you can carve out a little space of your own agency, and if that stops you from going insane, surely that’s a good thing. So I don’t beat myself up about it. Worse things happen at sea.

Today, the urge arrives and I go to Caroline’s wardrobe and fling open the doors, pulling all the skirts and dresses from their hangers on to the floor. It’s a production line, with a workforce of one. I use the large metal kitchen scissors, and their sparkling silver blades flash satisfyingly and methodically in my hands. It doesn’t take long to build up a rhythm. Cut and slice, back and forth, material distorting and multiplying, until all that’s left is a heaped-up multicoloured pile of useless fabric. Acrylic and polyester, silk and velvet. The cheap and the precious, all mixed up together and reduced to the same level.

The buzzing in my head dies down when it’s done and the tightness across my temples relaxes, but it still doesn’t feel as satisfying as it should. Perhaps it’s because no matter what I do, none of it seems to get me any closer to her. I can’t get to the heart of her. I’m living in her house, inside her life, but still the greatest connection I feel is when I see her words flashing on a screen, hundreds of miles away. I get to my feet and dust off my hands. Time to write another message.



Away


Caroline, May 2015


I SUPPOSE I wanted to see where you lived, the message reads, but not to see you. Hope that doesn’t sound rude, or frightening. There are things that have been on my mind for a while. I know this is strange. I don’t want you to worry too much. You have to do what you have to do.

I read it several times, finding it more frustrating every time. Each sentence builds a new layer, and I can see the links that loop from one to the next, but at the same time they’re bizarrely unconnected. A series of thoughts with all the important parts left out, and little hooks designed to snag and confuse. What things? How much worry is too much? What has to be done, and who has to do it? I could stare at these words all day and continue to tie myself up in knots.

This was always the way it was with you. You prided yourself on being so straightforward and simple, but the real meaning of what you said was buried maddeningly deep. I used to think that if I listened hard enough, concentrated long enough, then out it would pop in a flurry of stars, like a white rabbit from an inverted conjurer’s hat. But I never found the mental flourish that would produce it, and it seems I still haven’t.

I want to reply straight away, but I force myself to put the phone aside and carry on with my make-up. I smooth foundation up and over my cheeks, working it into the corners of my eyes. In the unforgiving stream of sunlight that falls across the mirror, I look tired and older than I am. Forty-five, not thirty-five. I reach for the eyeshadow, drawing the brush across my lids, first covering them in pale grey then highlighting the sweep above my eyelashes with a darker shade. My face seems composed of sections. I’m painting by numbers, colouring it in. I draw a black line of eyeliner and stroke mascara across my lashes then fill in my lips with pale pink lipstick. I’m unpleasantly reminded of the way I used to stand in front of the bathroom mirror, back when things were at their worst, assembling this precarious house of cards.