The Rose Petal Beach (22 page)

Last night, I slept in my clothes. And I went walking in my bare feet. Streaks of dirt and tiny pieces of gravel, which must have been hell to walk on, were stuck to the bottom of my feet when I woke up earlier. I also have scratches on my hands, and my forearms are sore. I may have fallen over or something.

I have no memory of what I did last night.

Well, I remember sitting in the kitchen, listening to Whitney (Houston) and Donna (Summer) and downing glasses of the most expensive wine I could find in Scott’s wine store which was once the under-stairs cupboard. The raw edges of my feelings started to abate, the hurt subsiding even as ‘Your Love Is My Love’, which had been one of the readings at our wedding and our first dance, started. Fury frothed up in the place of the hurt. Blinding, boiling rage, and the need to hurt Scott and Mirabelle was all consuming.

I could almost feel the weight of the pillow in my hands seconds before I pushed down on Scott’s face, holding it there until he stopped moving. I could almost feel the silkiness of the chocolate-brown skin of Mirabelle’s neck as I closed my hands around it and squeezed. I remember being horrified and fascinated in equal measure that I felt the need to hurt them so acutely it was almost real. It was in me. I had said it to Beatrix, but that was rational, that was explaining a thought I’d had, this was actually feeling the emotion. Knowing that a part of me could actually do it. I was capable of lashing out – physically – with the intention of causing damage.

It’s fuzzier, hazier after that. The music stopped, I knew I should go to bed. I’d drunk two bottles of expensive wine on an empty
stomach, but I didn’t go to bed. I went out. We don’t have a gravel path or drive, I do know who does, though. I wouldn’t have gone there. Would I?

The orange-red gravel washed down the drain in the shower this morning and now I am here, making breakfast.

I move around the kitchen, getting two bowls out for the girls, making toast. I pour juice into their pink and red beakers, place them in front of their cereal bowls. I take out the milk, put the cereal selection between their two place settings and then I fill the kettle. I am one shallow breath too many away from being sick right now, and two more accidental plate clashes away from my head splitting in two.

I don’t make breakfast for Scott any more. I cannot bring myself to do it, and he doesn’t seem to expect it.

What Beatrix said the other day about him still looking at porn is playing on my mind. I should check, but I can’t bring myself to do that, either. It sounds pathetic but I can’t cope with any more, it’s all too much already. And what if he is? Will it change anything? Really? I am treading water, waiting for counselling. Waiting to have someone else there so I can explain to him that I want to split up. That is why I am still here. That is why I am being a robot in my own life, and drinking myself to sleep every night. I know splitting up will be bad, but staying together is worse. We are still here, not because I think the girls will be devastated beyond repair; not because I still love him because I feel more hate towards him than anything. It is because if he stays, he will leave me alone. If he goes he will constantly be on my case to make it work again. I’m waiting for counselling to have someone else there when I tell him we can’t work this out. Because right now, as things stand, I know he won’t accept it and until we’ve ‘tried everything’ I can’t walk away with a clear conscience.

Standing at the table, I stop. Pause. Let the moments wash over me. I need this stillness, I need nothingness in the chaos of everything.

The thump upstairs tells me the stampede is on its way, breakfast has begun.

‘What you thinking about, Mama?’ Anansy asks. I have not sat at the table, I am tidying, moving things around, keeping busy so I don’t have to sit opposite my husband.

‘Nothing,’ I reply.

‘Are you thinking about chocolate cake?’ Cora asks.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Are you thinking about how many stripes a zebra has?’ asks Anansy.

‘No.’

‘Are you thinking about your ring?’ Cora says.

Spinning towards the table, I see the pair of them watching me. Scott is staring into his cereal bowl. Now that I have stopped making him breakfast he doesn’t seem to mind eating whatever cereal there is available instead of needing a cooked breakfast every day. ‘Why would I be thinking about my ring?’ I ask.

‘Because you’re not wearing it any more,’ she replies. ‘Have you lost it?’

‘No, it’s in …’ Where is it? I didn’t take it out of the skinny jeans I was wearing yesterday and put it in today’s jeans. Actually, I didn’t have pockets yesterday, did I? I put it in my bra. ‘I don’t remember. It’s upstairs somewhere, I haven’t lost it.’

‘OK, who’s ready for school, and who’s going to be running behind the car like the Pink Panther?’ Scott says, almost bounding out of his seat.

My stomach lurches and upends itself as it always does when he speaks. I turn back to the sink to avoid having to engage with him.

‘Me! Me!’ The girls shout in unison and I’m not sure if they mean they’ll be running behind the car or that they’re ready, but there is the scrape of chairs and then the thud of feet on tiles before they run out of the room.

‘Tick-tock, you’re against the clock,’ Scott calls jovially. ‘How’s my gorgeous wife?’ he says, coming behind me, linking his arms around my waist and pressing his lips against my neck.

My whole body freezes, unable to respond. This is the first time he has made bodily contact since we had sex that night. I don’t know why he has crossed that boundary, why he thinks it’s acceptable. The revulsion I feel is in my blood, it is infecting every part of me.

‘Tami, I’ve said I’m sorry,’ he says, releasing me, stepping backwards. He’s probably buried his hand in his hair, he’s probably looking as wounded as he sounds. ‘You have to believe me when I say I’m trying really hard. What more do you want from me?’

‘
You believe me now, don’t you?’
Mirabelle says in my head. It feels like it was last night she said that. Like she had told me something, explained everything and I knew the truth. Finally I had the truth. And the truth was I believed her.

‘I thought we were getting back on track,’ he continues to my silence. ‘I’m doing everything here. Everything that you wanted and you’re giving me nothing. Not even a hug. I can’t carry on like this, you know.’

‘Is that a threat?’ I ask.

‘I’m saying I don’t know how much more of not getting anything back for the efforts I’m making I can take. You’re not completely blameless in this, you know?’ he said.

‘How many times did you tell her you loved her?’ I ask.

Silence is his reply.

‘How many times did you make love to her in our bed?’

Silence.

‘Were you planning on leaving me?’

Silence.

‘See, this is it – I don’t know how much more I can take of not knowing the details. I haven’t asked because I know you won’t tell me. When you feel you can tell me anything I ask, I’ll see if I can give you “anything back” for you doing the things you should be doing for your family anyway.’

‘You believe me now, don’t you?’

‘Look, T—’

‘Dad, can I sit in the front?’ Cora asks as they reappear.

‘No way!’ he says, slipping smoothly into doting dad mode. ‘It’s much safer in the back for little tykes!’ He scoops her up, I don’t need to see it to know that’s what he does.

Anansy comes to me, slips her arms around my legs. ‘Have a nice day doing your work, Mama,’ she says brightly. She is a tiny version of me, sometimes. She thinks the world is a wonderful place, and I can see the sun of life shining deeply, clearly in her eyes. That’s how I look sometimes in my head. Like a little girl who thinks the world is a full of joy and awe; that there are always new things to discover, there is always fun to be had.

‘Aww, thank you,’ I say to her, getting down on my knees and wrapping my arms around her.
Thank you for reminding me that there is good in the world. Even if I am not living with it at the moment.

Afterwards is the calm, the hush. I sit at the kitchen table and stare at my cup. When we first moved in here, I remember Scott and I sat on the floor in the corner by the door, talking and visualising this space so it would be exactly as we wanted it to be. He leant over and placed his hand upon the swell of my stomach, upon our baby, and kissed me. ‘Once she’s here, I don’t think life could get any more perfect,’ he said. And I’d started crying because he was right. I was desperate to stay there, to remain in that moment so nothing could change, nothing could go wrong.

The knock on the door renders me immobile. No one visits without calling first. Beatrix did when she returned from working away, but that was a one-off. No one visits without calling first.

If I do not answer the door, nothing else bad can happen. Especially since I’ve been so careful with the salt, the cracks, the ladders. Even with greeting magpies. Nothing bad can happen if I do not answer the door.

There is a uniformed police officer on my doorstep. It’s happening again, we’re back here again.

‘Hello, Madam,’ he says and from then onwards I do not consciously hear a thing.

Answer your phone! ANSWER YOUR PHONE! I’m not messing about, you need to answer your phone.

The policeman talked about a crime down the street, asking if I had seen or heard anything last night. He couldn’t elaborate on the nature of the crime, simply that it was serious and they were looking for witnesses. I knew nothing and so I told him nothing. I was grateful to be able to shut the door, to not have him storm in looking for Scott.

Almost immediately there is another knock on the door, then the letterbox is being poked open, a rectangle of face visible in the gap. ‘Tami, open up, come on, quick,’ she hisses.

I open the door and she stumbles in. Looking out into the street as if someone is chasing her, she snaps the door shut quickly, then leans heavily against it. She sighs dramatically.

‘Oh, God, it’s so awful,’ she says. ‘Did the police tell you there’s been a serious crime up the road?’

‘Yes, what’s happened?’

Beatrix stops, pauses, then speaks. ‘It’s Mirabelle,’ she says. ‘She’s been murdered.’

Smoking is one of the things I shouldn’t do. It’s one of those things a girl like me shouldn’t even think about doing. Except after sex. After sex, lighting up stops me from being that girl. You know,
that
girl. The one who cuddles up to the man she’s with and starts running her mouth because she doesn’t want him to roll over and go to sleep. She wants to hang onto the stuff they’ve got now they’ve been that close. Smoking is the halfway point between getting up, getting dressed and getting the hell out, and cuddling up and letting show how into this thing you are.

If you like a guy, showing how involved you are is
fatal.
I don’t like playing games, but sometimes it’s necessary. Like my situation with this man here. I’ve smoked four cigarettes now. That’s a lot for me. I
really
like this man. Wish I didn’t, do. Really do do do do.

‘What’s going through your mind?’ he asks. The light from the corridor is shining on his skin, highlighting it in a way that makes me want to lick him.

‘Lots of things,’ I say, as casual as anything. I am not good at casual around this man. I hope he doesn’t know it.

I met him six weeks ago at this Old Skool club that’s opened up near Elephant & Castle. In the crowd of fine young men, he was the finest. His skin was the divine colour of melted cocoa, his eyes were as dark as midnight. His head was completely shaved, which I don’t usually like on a man, but on
this
man, hair would have distracted from the contours of his face. He had cheekbones that looked like they’d been carved by angels, a perfect, wide nose and lips that went on for ever. I didn’t think I’d ever seen a man so handsome before.

He, Noah, reclines against the pillows. He’s always got pristine sheets on his bed when I’m here, while the rest of his one-bedroom flat is always tidy and clean, too. He can cook, as well – I’ve never had better jeloff rice.

‘You know, you’re the only person I’ve ever let smoke in here,’ he says, casually.

I freeze, my eyes wide as I stare at the door. ‘You don’t like smoking?’ I say, horrified. I never actually checked. I just lit up and have been lighting up ever since. I’m never usually that rude.

‘Not my thing, at all,’ he says, his rich, deep voice sending vibrations of pleasure down from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. ‘Even had to buy an ashtray after the first time you were here.’

Thankfully, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, looking away from him. ‘
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God
,’ I mouth before saying, ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I should have checked. I’m really sorry.’ I grind out my cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. ‘I won’t smoke here again. Sorry.’ See what I did there? I said ‘again’, subliminally telling him I’ll be back.

‘Not a problem,’ he says.

In my bag, my mobile starts to vibrate. I’ve turned the ringer off so I can’t tell who it is, and normally I’d ignore it, but I suspect it’s Dad and he’ll just keep ringing until I answer. He does that. A lot. But he’s got his reasons.

‘Sorry,’ I say to Noah and rifle in my bag until I find my phone. Yup, ‘DAD’ is flashing up on the screen.

‘Hi Dad,’ I say into the phone, trying not to sound fed up. Or that I’ve just had afternoon sex. Or, indeed, that I’ve had sex at all. Virgin until my wedding day, that’s me.