Just Like a Woman
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Award winning writer, Madeleine Clark MA, is a Creative Writing tutor and PhD research student, living in Hampshire with her gorgeous and rather naughty, German Shepherd.
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First Published in Great Britain in 2010 by Pebbles Publishing.
Copyright ©Madeleine Clark 2006
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63001-206-9
Madeleine Clark has asserted her right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ACIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover design Pebbles Publishing
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Contents
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My most heartfelt thanks go out to the lovely Alex Tritton, without whom this story would really never have reached the public domain. Her patience, kindness, hard, hard work, diligence and obsession with correct literacy are appreciated beyond words.
Secondly I would like to thank Simon Applebaum, without whose help and managerial skills, this project would still be stuck in dining room discussions and fantasies.
I also would like to thank my wonderful creative friend Judy Waite, without whose encouragement, I would never have progressed beyond writing in diaries and journals and various scraps of paper.
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S
arah could taste the voice before she heard the whispering. Slamming her foot on the brake, the car skidded to a sudden full stop just before it hit the concrete bollard marking the parking space outside her therapist’s office. She gripped the steering wheel whilst banging her head rhythmically down onto it; her knuckles turning white. The metallic taste in her mouth warned her it was no use trying to resist. The fantasy was taking hold whether she wanted it to or not. The rhythmic banging stopped, her head sank into the headrest and she closed her eyes. Quietly she spoke to herself; stupid, stupid man.
Opening her eyes, she looked around checking no one was within ear shot; her mother couldn’t hear her now.
‘Bastard man!’
Surprised at how loud her voice came out, the feel of the unfamiliar word on her tongue thrilled her. She tried even louder; ‘Bastard!’
She covered her mouth with her hand at her daring. If only he hadn’t cut her up. The voice in her head grew louder. And he had been towing a caravan, as well! Nearly swinging round to hit her car. She couldn’t think about the trouble she would have been in! And then he laughed at her when she beeped the horn. Her stomach flipped at the thought of the caravan hitting her car. Well, technically, it wasn’t really her car, was it? It was in her mother’s name even though she couldn’t drive. She would never have let it be registered to her. And regardless of whose fault any accident may have been, in her mother’s eyes it would have been her fault. And she knew from experience the pain that would have been inflicted. Her mouth tasted foul. She opened her eyes, peeking at her watch. She was going to be late. No, she wouldn’t think about her mother.
Gradually focusing on the dial, trying to shut out the voice, she calculated there wasn’t time for this. The taste so strong she knew the voice would take over at any moment. Her therapist was waiting for her, she tried arguing with herself; but even as she thought of lying back in Stephanie’s comfortable chair, the voice became louder; insistent. If that stupid old man towing the caravan had not cut her up this would not be happening; she would by now have stepped out of the car and be on her way to sitting in Stephanie’s office.
Until that nasty man, with his bald head, had laughed at her retaliation she had been in complete control. Horrid, horrid caravans. If he hadn’t laughed. Anger boiled in her veins. It had been a lovely day; a good day.
The voice got louder.
She shook her head again, but knew it was useless, the voice always won. Stephanie would have to wait. Her eyes closed in submission.
She stands at the top of the staircase, her hand on the banister takes her weight. She watches the mouth move. The sound of the voice penetrates every fibre of her body, but as yet no actual words are audible. It is just noise. The same noise it always makes. Reaching deep down tugging on her belly button. It screeches and screeches. She needs it to stop; begs it to stop. Her hands leave the banister and cover her ears; her eyes close to avoid watching the mouth. Then for a single moment it ceases. Silence. Her arms drop, her eyes open. Now its eyes probe her, rays of disdain, hate and loathing sear through her. Then the voice starts again and Sarah feels her hands move. She has no control over them. They reach up encircling the thin leathery throat. Her fingers and thumbs press in and she is surprised how feeble it feels considering the noise it is capable of emitting. Her hands press harder. Squeezing. Squeezing. The body soon becomes lifeless and it slumps. She feels the dead weight drag against the head she supports, testing the strength of her arms. She looks down on the still mouth and expressionless eyes, relief rushes through her body. She hears her heart thump in place of the silent voice. She opens her hands and the body collapses in a soft thud beside her sandaled feet. She resists the temptation to kick it.
Sarah held her hands to her eyes and blinked in sunlight once more. It took her a few moments to recall where she was. She wiped her damp hands across her jeans before running them through her hair. Checking herself in the mirror she saw high rosy cheeks and eyes that were too bright; her breathing was still erratic. She looked at her watch again; she really needed a few minutes to gather herself together, but she didn’t have the time. Picking up her handbag, she got out of the car and walked to the office door, anxious Stephanie would not be cross with her being ten minutes late.
As she walked up the path, she knew she should have remained sitting in the car longer to recover. The concrete pathway felt soft, it was like walking on marshmallows, she thought, as she waded her way to the door. And, as always, after one of her daydreams, her bladder twitched for attention. It needed to be emptied. She knew she wouldn’t have the courage to ask to use the toilet before the session being so late. And now she wouldn’t be able to relax, because her bladder would twitch and twitch all the way through the session. The urge to turn around and leave was strong, but she kept walking forwards. Perhaps, she hoped, Stephanie would notice she was not her usual self when she lay back in the leather chair; perhaps Stephanie would actually ask her what was wrong, and she would be able to answer.
Entering the office, she apologized for being late.
‘Not to worry, at least you’re here now,’ Stephanie reassured her.
Well she would, at seventy five pounds an hour, Sarah considered as she sat back into the chair trying not to think of her bladder and the relief she’d feel when she sat on the toilet.
*****
Flicking the brush, Robert splattered paint all over John Lennon’s face and hair and on to the canvas behind him. He took a step back, both hands grasping the paint brush, his lips pursed in thought. He didn’t smile, but he was satisfied with the effect on the portrait. Anyone who knew him well, and he was of the misguided impression that no one did, would know he liked what he saw simply from his stance.
He stood with his right foot in front of the left, the toe pointing outwards, ready to tap a tune. With his right knee bent all his weight fell on to the left leg forcing his round denim covered buttocks to protrude. It was a stance he only ever adopted when pleased or happy; usually keeping his feet together, back upright, tension running down his spine. But this stance, as he looked at the painting, was how he held his guitar and whenever he held the instrument he was happy.
Small globulets of paint continued to drop down Lennon’s face, making the effect even more dramatic and Robert stepped sideways to the jam jar of white spirit immersing the paint brush before wiping his hands down his paint bedecked shirt.
Finally he looked up from the painting, glancing through the conservatory doors; he blinked several times, until the surroundings came back into focus. The doors opened onto a patio, but he looked further afield, past the swimming pool, over and above the horses grazing, up into the soft autumn clouds breaking up the blue sky.
Then, bringing his vision back into the conservatory he caught sight of the chaise longue. His feet came together, his back straightened and he sighed. It sat empty. Continuing to stare at it, he conjured up an ethereal image of her. She lay back into the cushions, he had arranged especially for her. She wasn’t looking up at him, but was immersed in her favourite book; a dog eared copy of The Dice Man. She wore the figure hugging orange dress he had bought for her whilst away on one of his tours. He chose to forget the knowledge he had never actually seen her wear it. She lay with her sun tanned legs at such an angle, he could see the black thong she wore beneath the dress; or perhaps it was just her he could glimpse. His eyes drifted up her body towards her face and he realized he had dressed her without a bra. There was no need. He recalled their intimate joke; more than a handful was wasteful because she had no more than a handful, and they both knew he could not resist more in other women. Despite her lack of breasts, he loved her body. It was perfect; it was in proportion and in the ten years since he had first met her, she never let it change. He watched her, and saw she was coming to the end of a page, her hand was leaving her side and hovering over the book in readiness of the turn. He knew she would now turn and curve her neck to look at him, she would smile up at him before commencing the new page. He waited for the smile.
When the phone rang his eyes closed and he gasped for the air he had forgotten he needed. Looking back she was gone. He waited for the phone to be answered. It kept ringing. He sauntered through the hall screaming for his PA.
‘Terry! Terry! Where the fuck are you?’
He hoped it would stop ringing before he got there, but as he drew nearer the shrill continued. He gave one last scream for Terry before grabbing the white hand piece. Raising it to his ear he shouted, ‘Yes!’
His head nodded while he listened to his agent telling him the details for the next three days routine. He looked at his watch; his wife gave it to him and was unique as only she could find. It had taken him a while to calculate the time when he looked at it. No ordinary digital watch from her. Everything she gave him had been different somehow, she had a knack of finding things that were unusual, not always expensive either. But this watch was, and naturally she charged it to his credit card. Now looking at the hand sweep from left to right, right to left, he could automatically read the time. His agent said he needed to be there for seven thirty; just over four hours for Terry to pack his bag.