Swimming Upstream (16 page)

“Athos, Porthos and Aramis,” said Catherine

“Blimey, that’s impressive,” I said. “Hold up,
what about D’Artagnan?”

“I think he’s over there,” said Zara, suddenly
blushing and smiling at someone over my shoulder.

“All for one and one for all,” announced
Catherine, raising her glass.

I raised my glass to meet hers. Zara was still
looking over my shoulder and smiling coyly. I glanced back to see a stocky,
handsome man in a green rugby shirt. He was sitting at a table behind us,
looking straight back at us and smiling.

Zara raised her glass slowly. “Yep. All for one,
and all that. Unless, of course, that handsome guy over there walks across to
the bar and offers to buy us a drink. In which case it’s every man for himself.”

“Woman,” said Catherine.

“Whatever,” said Zara,
fluttering her eyelids and cocking her head to one side.

It was nearly eleven. Catherine was asleep with her head
on my shoulder while Zara was busy being chatted up by the stocky, handsome man
whose name was James. He had a strong Irish accent. Catherine and I sat across the
table from them; Catherine snored softly while I played with my beermat and
tried not to listen to everything they were saying, which was somewhat
difficult.

“So come on James, what’s your last name?” asked Zara.

“Bond.”

“No it’s not!” Zara collapsed in a fit of loud
giggles. “You’re so funny.”

Catherine stirred beside me, and sat up.

“Get your clothes off,” said James. “And I’ll buy
you an ice cream.”

“Don’t give in to that!” I said, indignantly.

“No, no… it’s ‘For your Eyes Only,’” laughed Zara.
“The film. James Bond says, ‘Get your clothes back on and I’ll buy you an ice
cream.’”

“Oh. I see.”

“Only she hasn’t got them off yet,” added James.

Catherine leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Can
we go now?”

“Sure.” I turned to Zara and raised my eyebrows. “Coming?”

“So you're a builder, you say?” Zara was leaning
on one hand, gazing intently up at James. I raised my eyes heavenwards and
looked at Catherine. She shrugged and yawned.

“Ay,” said James.

“What do you build?”

“Houses.”

“Can you build me one?” said Zara.

“Tell you what, love, I’ve got one I could show
you right now, if you’re interested?”

“Great. I'm just going to the loo, and then we can
go,” said Zara, laying her hand on his shoulder.

“Fair play,” said James, downing his pint.

Catherine caught my eye and jerked her head over
her shoulder. I stood up.

“So, what’s about you, love?” said James, turning
to Catherine.

“Huh?” Catherine rubbed her eyes.

“Tell me about yourself, why don’t ya.”

“She's a Thespian,” I told him.

“Oh, right, right.” He smiled at her, then
frowned.

“So does she speak English?” he asked me.

“Of course I do,” said Catherine.

“Excuse me,” I said, squeezing past him, and
heading towards the toilets.

“So, where's Thespia,
then?” I heard him say from behind me.

Zara was, putting on her lipstick.

“You cannot be serious,” I said at the mirror.

“Why? I think he's cute,” said Zara. Her face was
all pink and twinkly.

“Well, he's good-looking alright...” I admitted. “But
what are you going to talk about?”

“He's quite clever really,” said Zara. “You're
just prejudiced because he's a builder.”

“Zara, he says ‘love’,” I pointed out.

“‘Love?’ What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, it’s like ‘Birds’, isn’t it? It’s
derogatory.”

“‘Birds?’ Did he say, ‘Birds’? Oh well, I’ll have
to talk to him about that.”

I shook my head, despairingly. “So, you're going
to go back to his house and sleep with him?”

“He told me,” said Zara, glossy-eyed, “what he'd
like to do to me. He's been talking dirty to me.”

“He told you ...” I stared at her in the mirror. “What?”

“I'll tell you tomorrow,” she grinned, pulling on
her raincoat. She winked at me and kissed me on the cheek. “Gotta go.”

“Zara, be careful,” I said. “Please.”

“I'll be fine,” she said. “Stop worrying.”

Catherine and I caught the tube to Baker Street
and walked down Marylebone Road. As we neared the flat and I fished in my bag
for my keys, a car door opened and a man got out.

“Oh, God,” said Catherine, stopping dead in her
tracks and grabbing my arm.

Martin leaned up against his car door with his
arms folded, staring at us, or more specifically at Catherine.

“So, where the fuck do you think you've been?” he
asked in a cool voice, loaded with angry sarcasm. Catherine didn't answer. “Look
at you,” he sneered, contemptuously. “Dressed up like a tart. And what the fuck
have you done to your hair?”

He unfolded his arms and took a step forward. Catherine
flinched, a knee-jerk response, and stepped back. “What are you doing here,
Martin?” she asked, her voice wavering.

“What am I doing here?” he retorted, his voice
rising. “I've been looking all over for you, you selfish bitch. Sneaking off
like that. What the fuck do you think you're playing at?”

“I needed some space, Martin,” Catherine pleaded.

“Space?” Martin snorted. “You and your fucking
dyke friend over there.”

“Now just a minute,” I began.

“Get in the car,” he ordered. Catherine didn't
move.

“I said, get in the car!” He reached out, grabbed
a handful of her hair and yanked her over towards the car. Catherine screamed.

“Let her go!” I shouted. I rushed at him and
started tugging at his arms. He turned around and brushed me off like a fly
that was bothering him. I fell backwards and sat down on the pavement.

“My things are inside,” I heard Catherine cry as
she was elbowed into the car.

Martin turned to me. “Get her things.”

“Don't bloody-well order me around!” I yelled at
him, but stood up anyway, and shakily let myself into the flat.

I went into the bedroom and picked up Catherine's
overnight bag. I peeped out of the window; there was no movement in the car. I
glanced around the room at the relics of our day: the unmade bed, the empty
chocolate wrappers and the make-up scattered all over the sheets, the tape
recorder and cassettes spread over the dressing table, the wine bottle on the
floor. I bent down shakily and picked up Catherine's clothes and stuffed them
in the bag. I sat down on the bed and picked out her eye shadow and lipstick,
then went into the bathroom for her toothbrush. All the while I was boiling
with anger, knowing there was nothing, absolutely nothing I could do. Except call
the police. But I knew Catherine wouldn’t want that. And somehow, neither did
I.

I went back downstairs and out onto the street.
Martin opened the car door and held his hand out for her bag. Catherine was
slumped down in the passenger seat. It was dark, and I couldn't see her very
well.

“Are you all right?” I asked her. She gave a
barely perceptible nod. Martin snatched the bag from my hand and closed the
door.

He started the engine, and the car roared off up the
street.

On a Saturday in late October Catherine returned. It was
early in the morning when the telephone rang, making me jump.

“It's me,” said Catherine in a strange voice, that
didn’t quite sound like hers. “I’ve left him, Lizzie.”

“Where are you?” I asked. “I'll come and get you.”

“Liverpool Street,” she said. “I got the first
train. And don't worry, I'll get a cab. It will be quicker. I just wanted to
make sure you were home.”

When I opened the door, Catherine looked as though
she had shrunk. She was wearing sunglasses, and her dark hair was lank against
her head. She stood on the step with two bags. I leaned forward to help her
with them but then I noticed that there was something wrong with her face. I
reached up and lifted up her sunglasses instead. Catherine flinched. Underneath
she had a black eye and a badly swollen cheek.

I breathed in sharply. “Oh Catherine,” was all I
could say.

She smiled, tight-lipped, the whites of her eyes
glistening. “It's not as bad as it looks,” she said, but when she spoke her
voice was all lispy and I saw that one of her front teeth was missing.

Tears sprang to my eyes. “Oh Catherine,” I said
again. “You've lost your tooth.”

“No I haven't,” she said. “It's in my pocket.” And
then she started to cry as well.

I took her into the kitchen and made coffee. Catherine
sat down at the table and I placed a mug in front of her and sat down opposite.

“What happened?” I asked her.

“I don’t know…I just don’t know. Things were all
right. For a while, you know. After I came to stay, before.” There was a slight
whistle between her teeth as she spoke. “He apologised for what happened when
he came here to find me. Said he had just been worried about me. He didn’t know
where I was. He got back from a tournament in Manchester to find me gone, he
said, and he just flipped out. I mean, I left him a note - it wasn’t like
before. I told him in the note that it was just for a few days. But he said
that not knowing where I was frightened him. He was scared. I’d never done that
before. I said I understood. I forgave him.” She paused. “And that was the end
of it. Things were perfect for a while. So perfect.” She sighed and looked out
of the window at the fire escape where a blackbird was pecking at some crumbs
I’d put out there earlier.

“So, what happened this time?” I prompted her.

“You know, I don’t really know what started it. I
quizzed him over something. He was being cagey about some girl he knows. She
had phoned him, and I asked him who she was and he got angry. He stormed out. And
when he came back I asked him if he had been to see her. He just went mad. I
told him it didn’t matter, after all, that I didn’t mind. And then he saw my
head shots... publicity shots, you know? Lying on the kitchen table. I’d just
had them done at a studio in town. I was thinking I could just start making a
few applications, see how it went.”

“Well, that’s great!” I said.

“Well it wasn’t, not really. Because he started insulting
me. Picked up my head shots and threw them across the room.” She started to
cry, softly again. “He called me names, said I was an ugly, useless whore, that
I couldn’t act. Would never make it as an actress. Then the phone rang and I
went to answer it. He ran after me to get there first and that’s when it
happened. I don’t think he meant to, but he just…punched out….punched me out of
the way.”

I took her hand across the table and squeezed it.

“I fell. I hit my cheek on the corner of the
table. And that’s when I looked down and there was blood coming out of my
mouth. Then I felt something else in my mouth, besides the blood, I mean, and I
spat it out and it was my tooth. When he saw what had happened I think he was
more shocked than me. And, you know, it was almost funny, ironic, really. Me on
my hands and knees, blood dripping from my mouth while I picked up all these
smiling photos of me that were lying all over the floor. It was like that
wasn’t the real me, smiling away, make up, hair all perfect. It made me feel
what he said. I
am
useless,” Catherine sobbed. “Completely useless.”

“Catherine, you are not!” I shouted. “You’re a
brilliant, talented, wonderful person. And I am so angry that he has done this
to you.”

Catherine wiped her eyes. “I’m going to have to
get a false one, aren’t I?” she said, placing the tooth on the table.

“Catherine… that’s your front tooth. They are
really deep rooted. And he’s knocked it out. This is serious,” I said. “You
should let me call the police.”

“No. I don’t want that. He knows he’s gone too
far. He won’t come after me.”

“He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this,” I
persisted.

“No.” Catherine looked up at me. “Please. I don’t
want that. He didn’t mean for this to happen...”

“But it did.”

“... And, besides, it was loose, anyway. I think I
have that thing… you know, what’s it called? When your teeth are loose…”

I sighed and fastened my hands round my coffee
cup. I stared silently at the tooth sitting on the table between us. I hoped
that she wasn’t going to try and mitigate this. If she did, there was no hope.

Catherine was wiggling another tooth with her
forefinger. “This one feels a bit loose too,” she said.

“Let me see.” She opened her mouth and waggled it
back and forwards. “Okay, leave it alone,” I said. “I'll ring my dentist, get
an emergency appointment.”

“You know all those dreams I had about my teeth
falling out?” said Catherine, trying to make a joke. “Well, I don't think I was
worried about money. My teeth are falling out.”

I said, “Yes, well, they didn't fall out by
themselves.”

We sat in silence for a minute or two.

“He hasn't always been like this,” she said. “Deep
down he hates himself for it, you know.”

“Good,” I said. “I hate him for it too.”

Catherine sighed and peered into her coffee cup.

I reached out and took her wrist. “Stop feeling
sorry for him,” I said. “And start feeling sorry for you.”

“I know,” she said. “I know you're right. But, you
know what hurts the most? When I remember what it was like in the beginning.
I've still got this image in my head of the guy I fell in love with. He would
never have done this.” She shook her head, her voice wavering. “It's like he's
possessed, or something. I know deep down there's a good decent person inside
him. And that’s the person I miss ... that's the person I want back.” She
looked up at me, as if it were in my power to do something, to change it all.

I stroked her arm. “Sometimes
people change,” I said. “But you have to face it; maybe he's not coming back.
Maybe this is how he is. Maybe this is how he always was, but you brought out
the best in him just for a little while.”