‘C’mon, Grace, you should come.’
I swallow. Picture all the people who’ll be there. Everyone who’ll know me and what … I pull my mind away.
‘You will come, won’t you?’ Rachel’s tone is more insistant. ‘Jane will be disappointed if you don’t. Really.’
She would? Somehow I find that hard to believe. Not after what happened. After all, no one except Rachel has bothered to keep in touch since our university days.
‘I’ll try.’ I put the card back into the envelope and slip it into my bag. Steer the conversation into safer waters. But the meal feels rushed, Rachel checking the time regularly. It seems no time at all before she stands and drags on her coat, reaching in her bag for her purse.
I shake my head. ‘Like I said. My treat.’
Rachel gives me a grateful smile. ‘And I meant what I said, Grace. Come and see us soon, get away from here for a few days. It’ll do you good.’ A meaningful look as she slings the strap of her bag over her head.
‘I promise,’ I say, trying to convince myself I mean it, and stand to give her a hug. She clutches me tightly then steps back. Raises a gloved hand to my face.
‘We still love you, you know.’
She holds her hand there for a moment. I lean forward and squeeze her to me again, blinking.
‘Take care,’ Rachel says with emphasis as she turns to leave.
I watch her retreat into the London night. Sit down and finish my glass, wondering why I feel so abandoned. The waitress approaches with the bill. I give her my credit card, and as she moves away I see the man from the bar hovering behind her.
‘I wanted to ask if you’d like to join me for a drink?’ His smile the right side of hopeful. Up close he looks more attractive, a faint stubble line lending an appealing ruggedness to his features.
I weigh up my options. A night alone in front of the telly – or accept his offer. Suddenly the siren call of the sofa doesn’t seem so sweet.
11
Saturday, 14 February
I’m there again. In that dismal flat, cold grey sky barely visible through naked windows. Beneath me the bare mattress, one spring digging into my shoulder as the weight of his body pins me down. The stale sour smell of the air in the room, the musky scent of skin and sweat as he pushes into me, hard and relentless, hurting, and I’m wondering how I can possibly be here again, after everything, how I could have repeated that mistake, and I’m crying with shame because I’m here again and it’s terrible, always so terrible, and now I know I’m never, ever going to be able to leave …
I wake with a gasp. Disorientated, my cheeks damp with tears. I raise my head and look around, heart racing.
Where am I?
Dark curtains, the gap between revealing the faintest sliver of orange street light. Enough to see I’m in a double bed, half covered by the duvet. Beside me a man, asleep, face turned away.
Memory seeps in. The guy from the restaurant. Not Michael, I realize with a rush of relief, the dregs of my nightmare lingering in some recess of my mind. I slow my breathing.
Calm down, Grace. It’s not him, and you’re not there. It’s over.
Lifting my head again, I peer back towards the window. What time is it, I wonder. Not yet light, so five, maybe six? I calculate my hours of sleep – no more than four, at the most. Oh God.
I lie still, unmoving, letting the minutes slip by. Somewhere outside, I make out the faint sound of birdsong. The first rumble of traffic. Inside, closer, an intermittent clunking noise as the heating kicks in.
Not that early then. Seven, perhaps?
The man beside me stirs. Mutters something from a dream. I strain to remember his name; he must have told me. I wonder which one I gave him – Stella or Grace?
I lift the duvet carefully. I can only see his shoulders, the curve of the spine down to the dark cleft of his arse. For a moment I’m tempted to wake him, to have him embrace me, kiss away my morning breath. Let him run a hand between my thighs
I swallow. Picture all the people who’ll be there. Everyone who’ll know me and what … I pull my mind away.
‘You will come, won’t you?’ Rachel’s tone is more insistant. ‘Jane will be disappointed if you don’t. Really.’
She would? Somehow I find that hard to believe. Not after what happened. After all, no one except Rachel has bothered to keep in touch since our university days.
‘I’ll try.’ I put the card back into the envelope and slip it into my bag. Steer the conversation into safer waters. But the meal feels rushed, Rachel checking the time regularly. It seems no time at all before she stands and drags on her coat, reaching in her bag for her purse.
I shake my head. ‘Like I said. My treat.’
Rachel gives me a grateful smile. ‘And I meant what I said, Grace. Come and see us soon, get away from here for a few days. It’ll do you good.’ A meaningful look as she slings the strap of her bag over her head.
‘I promise,’ I say, trying to convince myself I mean it, and stand to give her a hug. She clutches me tightly then steps back. Raises a gloved hand to my face.
‘We still love you, you know.’
She holds her hand there for a moment. I lean forward and squeeze her to me again, blinking.
‘Take care,’ Rachel says with emphasis as she turns to leave.
I watch her retreat into the London night. Sit down and finish my glass, wondering why I feel so abandoned. The waitress approaches with the bill. I give her my credit card, and as she moves away I see the man from the bar hovering behind her.
‘I wanted to ask if you’d like to join me for a drink?’ His smile the right side of hopeful. Up close he looks more attractive, a faint stubble line lending an appealing ruggedness to his features.
I weigh up my options. A night alone in front of the telly – or accept his offer. Suddenly the siren call of the sofa doesn’t seem so sweet.
11
Saturday, 14 February
I’m there again. In that dismal flat, cold grey sky barely visible through naked windows. Beneath me the bare mattress, one spring digging into my shoulder as the weight of his body pins me down. The stale sour smell of the air in the room, the musky scent of skin and sweat as he pushes into me, hard and relentless, hurting, and I’m wondering how I can possibly be here again, after everything, how I could have repeated that mistake, and I’m crying with shame because I’m here again and it’s terrible, always so terrible, and now I know I’m never, ever going to be able to leave …
I wake with a gasp. Disorientated, my cheeks damp with tears. I raise my head and look around, heart racing.
Where am I?
Dark curtains, the gap between revealing the faintest sliver of orange street light. Enough to see I’m in a double bed, half covered by the duvet. Beside me a man, asleep, face turned away.
Memory seeps in. The guy from the restaurant. Not Michael, I realize with a rush of relief, the dregs of my nightmare lingering in some recess of my mind. I slow my breathing.
Calm down, Grace. It’s not him, and you’re not there. It’s over.
Lifting my head again, I peer back towards the window. What time is it, I wonder. Not yet light, so five, maybe six? I calculate my hours of sleep – no more than four, at the most. Oh God.
I lie still, unmoving, letting the minutes slip by. Somewhere outside, I make out the faint sound of birdsong. The first rumble of traffic. Inside, closer, an intermittent clunking noise as the heating kicks in.
Not that early then. Seven, perhaps?
The man beside me stirs. Mutters something from a dream. I strain to remember his name; he must have told me. I wonder which one I gave him – Stella or Grace?
I lift the duvet carefully. I can only see his shoulders, the curve of the spine down to the dark cleft of his arse. For a moment I’m tempted to wake him, to have him embrace me, kiss away my morning breath. Let him run a hand between my thighs
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