Read Online The Child Inside by Suzanne Bugler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Suzanne Bugler
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close space. I remember Andrew’s face, looming up in front of mine, shouting, flushed with anger.
I kicked him, on the shin. I was wearing shoes, and I kicked him hard. He completely crumpled for a second as if his strings had been cut, and then he rose back up, right up, as if in slow motion, and then he grabbed me – literally grabbed me – by the collar of my shirt, fisting his hand into the material, and boom, boom, boomed me along the length of the wall, like a rag doll, saying, ‘Don’t-you-ever-do-that-again.’ Spitting out the words. I ended up at the other end of the hall, still pinned to the wall by his hand. It was as if he didn’t know what to do next, as if he was frozen now by his own reaction.
He didn’t hurt me. Oh no. He thrilled me. I was racked up, horny as hell. All that power so almost unleashed, all that passion. But that is the difference between Andrew and me.
I saw the anger drain out of his eyes.
And he let go of me, then, in horror. He turned away from me. And he’s never done anything like that since; whenever we have argued – however much I have goaded and pushed – he has never lost control. But, oh, how I wish that he would.
Later, I am sitting at the dining table, methodically sticking stamps onto Christmas cards when my sister Janice phones.
‘What you doing?’ she asks.
And I say, ‘Oh, nothing much. The usual, you know. Getting ready for Christmas.’
‘Mm,’ Janice says, not impressed. She was married once herself, but not for long. She has no children. She lives on her own in north London, and teaches English at a comprehensive school. ‘Guess what?’ she says now. ‘I’m off to Paris for the weekend.’
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Who with?’
‘Aha.’
‘You’ve got a new man,’ I state. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Paul,’ she says, a little nonchalantly.
‘Must be serious if he’s taking you off to Paris. Will we meet him over Christmas?’
‘Not sure,’ she goes on. ‘There is one little snag.’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s married.’
‘Oh, Janice, no.’
‘Oh, don’t go all pious on me,’ she says.
‘I’m not, but . . . How come he’s going to go to Paris for the weekend if he’s married?’
‘It’s complicated,’ she says.
‘You mean he told his wife it’s a business trip,’ I state. ‘How very original.’
And now her tone changes entirely. ‘We can’t all be happily married with our happy little families,’ she says. And that is me labelled, whether or not it is true. I tell myself it is envy that makes her say things like that, however misplaced I think her envy might be. We don’t talk about my marriage; we don’t talk about my feelings at all. How’s Jonathan? she’ll ask. How’s Andrew? But that is all. And I’ll say: fine, thank you – and that is it. That’s all she wants to hear. Anything else is off-limits, has been since her divorce.
I wish we could talk. I wish I could tell her things.
Now, to change the subject as much as anything, I ask, ‘Do you remember Leanne, from across the road from us in Ashcroft?’
‘Of course I do,’ she says. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I was just thinking about her, that’s all.’
Janice laughs. ‘I remember when her dad bought that fancy car. Pissed our dad off no end.’ She pauses. ‘Funny girl, Leanne, from what I remember. A bit screwed up, wouldn’t you say? I wonder what became of her.’
I wonder it too.
I wonder how it came to be that for such a short time that small group of people came together and shone as brightly as the stars. And then, one by one, they all fell away, like lights going out in the dark.
I sit at the computer and I google Leanne’s name. Nothing comes up. There are a couple of other people with the same name – one in America, one playing hockey for a school in Scotland – but not her. Not my Leanne. I even look up her old school, but she’s not there, and neither is Fay. It’s very strange, looking at the listed names of her
I kicked him, on the shin. I was wearing shoes, and I kicked him hard. He completely crumpled for a second as if his strings had been cut, and then he rose back up, right up, as if in slow motion, and then he grabbed me – literally grabbed me – by the collar of my shirt, fisting his hand into the material, and boom, boom, boomed me along the length of the wall, like a rag doll, saying, ‘Don’t-you-ever-do-that-again.’ Spitting out the words. I ended up at the other end of the hall, still pinned to the wall by his hand. It was as if he didn’t know what to do next, as if he was frozen now by his own reaction.
He didn’t hurt me. Oh no. He thrilled me. I was racked up, horny as hell. All that power so almost unleashed, all that passion. But that is the difference between Andrew and me.
I saw the anger drain out of his eyes.
And he let go of me, then, in horror. He turned away from me. And he’s never done anything like that since; whenever we have argued – however much I have goaded and pushed – he has never lost control. But, oh, how I wish that he would.
Later, I am sitting at the dining table, methodically sticking stamps onto Christmas cards when my sister Janice phones.
‘What you doing?’ she asks.
And I say, ‘Oh, nothing much. The usual, you know. Getting ready for Christmas.’
‘Mm,’ Janice says, not impressed. She was married once herself, but not for long. She has no children. She lives on her own in north London, and teaches English at a comprehensive school. ‘Guess what?’ she says now. ‘I’m off to Paris for the weekend.’
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Who with?’
‘Aha.’
‘You’ve got a new man,’ I state. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Paul,’ she says, a little nonchalantly.
‘Must be serious if he’s taking you off to Paris. Will we meet him over Christmas?’
‘Not sure,’ she goes on. ‘There is one little snag.’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s married.’
‘Oh, Janice, no.’
‘Oh, don’t go all pious on me,’ she says.
‘I’m not, but . . . How come he’s going to go to Paris for the weekend if he’s married?’
‘It’s complicated,’ she says.
‘You mean he told his wife it’s a business trip,’ I state. ‘How very original.’
And now her tone changes entirely. ‘We can’t all be happily married with our happy little families,’ she says. And that is me labelled, whether or not it is true. I tell myself it is envy that makes her say things like that, however misplaced I think her envy might be. We don’t talk about my marriage; we don’t talk about my feelings at all. How’s Jonathan? she’ll ask. How’s Andrew? But that is all. And I’ll say: fine, thank you – and that is it. That’s all she wants to hear. Anything else is off-limits, has been since her divorce.
I wish we could talk. I wish I could tell her things.
Now, to change the subject as much as anything, I ask, ‘Do you remember Leanne, from across the road from us in Ashcroft?’
‘Of course I do,’ she says. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I was just thinking about her, that’s all.’
Janice laughs. ‘I remember when her dad bought that fancy car. Pissed our dad off no end.’ She pauses. ‘Funny girl, Leanne, from what I remember. A bit screwed up, wouldn’t you say? I wonder what became of her.’
I wonder it too.
I wonder how it came to be that for such a short time that small group of people came together and shone as brightly as the stars. And then, one by one, they all fell away, like lights going out in the dark.
I sit at the computer and I google Leanne’s name. Nothing comes up. There are a couple of other people with the same name – one in America, one playing hockey for a school in Scotland – but not her. Not my Leanne. I even look up her old school, but she’s not there, and neither is Fay. It’s very strange, looking at the listed names of her
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