The House Swap(45)
‘Exactly,’ Amber says. ‘So when he is around, it puts …’
‘Puts pressure on?’ I prompt.
She half nods, sips her tea again. ‘Puts a spotlight on things, I was going to say. Everything’s – exaggerated. I find myself wanting to know exactly what he’s thinking and feeling all the time, and it just makes him …’ She brings her hands away from her mug in a sudden, violent movement, snapping them together. ‘Close up.’
I look at her painted fingernails, digging into her own skin. There’s a rawness to it that shocks me. ‘I see,’ I say.
She releases herself and leans back in her chair, tipping her head back to the ceiling. ‘Oh, well,’ she says flatly. ‘That’s men for you. I blame his ex. That relationship hurt him a lot. He told me all about it, a while ago. I’m not sure he’ll ever fully get over it. He sacrificed a lot for her, kept her secrets. I don’t think she has any idea the effect it had on him.’
All at once, I feel claustrophobic. The conversation is too intense, making me short of breath, and there’s something prickling over my skin, some small, wordless instinct I don’t quite understand. I push my chair back and take my mug to the sink, turning on the tap. ‘I’ll wash this up,’ I say, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. She’s twisted round now, with her arms locked across the back of the chair, her face angled towards mine.
‘You know,’ she says, ‘funnily enough, her name was Caroline, too.’
And I’m not sure what comes first: the hearing of the words, or the flash of colour and shapes that catches my eye as I turn from the sink and reach for the tea towel hanging from a hook on the side of the fridge. Just below the hook, there’s a collage of photographs in small magnetic frames. Amber in bikini and sunglasses, shading her eyes on a sandy beach. Amber smiling nose to nose with a small tabby cat. Amber dressed up for a party. And in the centre, she’s looping her arms around a man’s neck and pressing her face close up against his and her eyes are half closed in bliss – and the man is you.
I say something, or think I do, but the words are strangled in my throat.
I can’t drag my eyes away from the photograph. You’re smiling, your eyes crinkled at the corners. You’re wearing a shirt I’ve never seen and you’re someone I don’t know.
‘Caroline,’ I hear her say, and when I force myself to turn around her face is so pale I can see the veins translucent beneath her skin. We look at each other for a long moment. ‘It’s you,’ she says at last.
We stand there motionless opposite each other, only a few feet apart. It’s as if we’re reading parts and the scripts have dropped out of our hands and neither of us has any idea what to say.
She finds the words first, raising her chin, glaring at me defiantly. ‘What the fuck is going on?’
I gasp, trying to sort my thoughts into some kind of coherence. I glance at the photograph again, and this time the look in your eyes seems calculating. I have the strangest feeling that you’re here in the room with us, watching this unfold. ‘I have no idea,’ I say shakily. ‘I’m not the one you should be asking.’
‘What?’ she asks, louder now, folding her arms across her chest. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Where is he?’ I say. ‘What has he told you?’
‘He’s not – it’s not something he’s told me,’ she bites back. ‘It’s something that’s real. He’s working away, just like he often does. I told you that. He’s at the other office, in Cambridge, he’s—’
‘He’s lying to you,’ I say swiftly, before I have even stopped to consider if I want to be saying this. ‘I don’t think he’s there at all. I think he’s in my flat.’
‘What?’ she says again, shaking her head. ‘Caroline, that’s insane. Do you expect me to believe that my boyfriend—’
‘Carl,’ I interrupt again. ‘You can say his name, you know, I’m not going to fall to pieces if you say his name.’ But my voice is rising and I can hear the tell-tale shakiness in my own words. My eyes are filling with tears and I’m pressing my fists angrily against them, shutting her out until I can’t see her any more.
Home
Caroline, June 2013
HE’S ALREADY WAITING for me at the station by the time I’ve fought my way off the Tube – wearing sunglasses and a short-sleeved shirt in response to the new heatwave, lounging back against the wall. I’ve seen him from way off, but pretend I haven’t, walking slowly and composedly, feeling the Lycra of my dress stretch and rub against my thighs. I know he’s watching, and it’s only when I’m a few feet away that I let my eyes meet his and quicken my pace, almost running into his arms. He sweeps me up and holds me tightly, kissing me as I slip my hand briefly inside his shirt. His skin is warm and smooth against mine, and I feel a pang of desire twist in my gut.
‘You look hot,’ he says simply, pulling back to examine the dress clinging to my body; the band of pink and red flowers running across the bodice that pushes my breasts out beneath it, the short black skirt moulded to my curves. I found it in the back of my wardrobe this morning. It’s been years since I wore it – probably not since I was his age. When I first tried it on and looked in the mirror, doubt rippled through me, but the longer I stood there, the more I liked it: the brazenness of it, the way it shouts for men to turn their heads and stare. I had forgotten that I had this power but, now that I’ve rediscovered it, I find I only want him.