Guilt Page 12

  But I didn’t do it. And I am so pleased with myself. I can’t wait for Sebastian to come back so that I can tell him. It would have hurt me so much. It would have still hurt now. I would have gouged deeply. I would have gouged clumsily. It would have taken a long time to stem the bleeding and stung terribly when I rubbed it with antiseptic. The wound would probably have been so deep that it started weeping. I would have packed it with Savlon and kept my fingers crossed.

  I think I would have needed to see a doctor. And when you’re a cutter going to see the doctor is never good. They look at you with patronising condescension, and advise you to see a therapist. If you tell them to mind their own fucking business and that you’re already seeing one, they’ll probably send you for anger management, and write something damaging in your notes. So that’s another reason I am so glad I didn’t cut.

  And now today, I’ve been having a good day. A shout from the top of the mountains, good day. Right from the moment I woke up. Meeting you in the kitchen, Miranda, laughing with you over a cup of early morning coffee. Walking to the bus bathed in January sunshine: young, happy and in love. My classes finished by lunchtime and so I am almost back at the flat. You’re both still at work so I will have the flat to myself. I need to think about the next project for my degree. The final project, worth half the year’s marks.

  Last bit of the journey, footsteps echoing on concrete paving stones as I walk along the ornamentally landscaped pathway towards Harbourside, towards our flat. I turn the key and enter.

  Today our shiny flat shouts at me like Tracey Emin’s bed. Telling me about our life. The tangle of our love. Empty beer cans and unwashed wine glasses stained by wine dregs. Unwashed dishes in the sink. Overflowing laundry baskets. Our unmade bed. It is no longer a flat but a representation. It represents the rush, the flow, the passion of our love.

  I have come back to the flat alone on purpose. I get very little time here alone. I want some peace to design my next photography project. I roll a spliff. I light it and lie on our bed to smoke it. I pull it in. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. I close my eyes as I hold it in. I open them as I exhale.

  My next photography project will be elemental. Powerful. It will encompass the power, the energy of the universe. The moon. The wind. The waves. The sky. Another hit. Holding in longer this time. I think back to our family holidays. You and I, Miranda, holding hands and running into the sea. Jumping over the crests of the waves and laughing. That’s it. Miranda, you’ve helped me to find my project. The power of the sea.

  62

  Miranda

  Anastasia’s words from a few months ago reverberate in my mind.

  ‘It’s a simple choice. You work with Sebastian or you leave.’

  They contort in my head. Work with Sebastian or leave. Before you leave, damage him. Before you damage him, leave. Work. Damage. Leave.

  I cannot damage Sebastian at work, so I will damage him at home. Saturday morning. Home alone. Sebastian has gone for a jog along Harbourside. Zara has popped to Costa to get some fresh coffee. I step into their bedroom. What a disgrace. A carpet of laundry. Overflowing waste bin. A river of beer cans on the bedside table.

  I wade through the mess, towards Sebastian’s computer, and grab it from the top of the dresser. I sit on the bed and open it. Minimum time. Maximum damage. Downloading. Downloading.

  Download complete.

  63

  Zara

  Sitting in bed drinking my Costa latte. It tastes uplifting. Saturday morning. A lazy day of bliss ahead of me. Sebastian’s laptop on the bed next to me. First things first. I fancy to catch up on the Daily Mail website: celebrity gossip, my favourite. I heard a bit about Tom Hiddleston and Taylor Swift, and I just want to check it out. Maybe, after I graduate, I should consider doing some celebrity photography on the side to earn a bit of money.

  I pull Sebastian’s laptop towards me and open it, tapping the keys to get in. But before I reach gossip and glamour, I am bombarded by naked thrusting bodies, pumping and panting. Orgasmic wailing. Pink nipples. Sweat and orifices. I cannot bear to watch. I switch it off. As soon as I have closed the screen Sebastian walks into the bedroom, red-faced after his jog.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.

  I open his computer and switch it on again. The pornography starts up. Three men on one woman. It looks like group rape. It makes me feel sick. Really sick. I retch in my mouth and swallow it back.

  ‘Look at this,’ I say turning the screen of his Mac towards him.

  He watches, face ashen. Shaking his head. ‘It wasn’t me. I didn’t download this.’ His eyes are spitting with anger. ‘It’s disgusting. I don’t watch this sort of stuff.’

  ‘What sort of stuff do you watch?’

  He holds his eyes in mine. ‘I don’t. It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Who was it then?’

  Eyes darkening to black. ‘Your stupid bitch of a sister again, I expect.’

  64

  Zara

  Good days. Bad days. Good days. Bad days. Right now there are more good days than bad days. Speaking to my psychotherapist from home on Skype every day helps. Sebastian is helping me more than anyone. Sebastian has pulled me back from the brink.

  Four o’clock in the morning, or about that time. I sense it from the way I feel inside. I have more energy now than at four in the afternoon. My circadian rhythm out of sync with the rest of the world. Sebastian is asleep next to me; I feel the steady tide of his breath and hear the insistent background hiss of rain spilling from the sky. As I lie here, listening to the rain, it happens – the thing I can’t prevent. The desire to cut. A sickness inside me that pulsates. I lie and let it cascade through my body. If I stay calm it will go away.

  But tonight it doesn’t. I toss the covers away and pad to the bathroom to splash water on my face. Perhaps herbal tea will help. Mother loves herbal tea. Thinking about how disappointed Mother would be if she saw me restless like this, struggling not to cut, I step into the living room/kitchen and put the kettle on. In the silence of the night, the kettle sounds like a furnace. When it has reached its crescendo, I pour boiling water onto my tea bag, releasing the gentle scent of lemon and ginger. You appear in the kitchen doorway looking concerned. You are wearing the yellow fluffy dressing gown that Mother bought you, and your lamb’s wool slippers from the market.

  ‘What’s going on?’ you ask.

  ‘Sssh. Don’t wake Sebastian,’ I say, putting my fingers over my lips.

  You step towards me.

  ‘What is it, Zara? Why are you up in the middle of the night?’

  ‘I’m giving up cutting. Sometimes it makes me restless.’

  You stand staring at me.

  ‘Do you fancy a cup of tea?’ I ask. Perhaps like Mother, like me, herbal tea will calm you, distract you. You look uptight as well.

  ‘Is tea the answer then?’ you ask with an amused, almost condescending smile.

  I love you, Miranda, but I don’t like it when you are condescending. You have always been the clever one. You really do not need to add condescension to your repertoire. It doesn’t suit you. Leave it out please.

  Your smile relaxes and widens. Condescension evaporated.

  I make the tea and we sit next to one another on the sofa, sipping it. The sofa is sagging in the middle, pushing us together. My thigh rests against your leg.

  ‘It’s such good news that you’re giving up cutting. How have you found the strength?’

  ‘Sebastian,’ I tell you.

  Your body stiffens. You look the other way.

  THE PRESENT

  65

  ‘Legal visit,’ the officer says as he walks towards her. ‘Time to meet your QC.’

  She sighs inside. She doesn’t want a QC. She wants Theo. No QC, however experienced, could possibly look out for her better than Theo Gregson.

  The prison officer walks with her along the convoluted corridors that lead back towards the visit rooms. White paint. Curved metal. No natural light. No window
s. The prison officer is Sam, an elderly man with a grizzly beard, who looks close to retiring. But he has a voice much stronger than his body, and he is always ready with a kindly word and smile.

  ‘Your trial must be coming up soon then?’ he asks.

  ‘A couple of months,’ she says, biting her lip nervously.

  ‘A couple of months and you’ll be good to go.’

  Her stomach jumps a little as he says that. Could that ever be possible? A life again, without doors locked behind her. A life under her own control.

  Good to go.

  Sam knocks on the door of the visit room and they enter. He nods his head at the waiting occupants and retreats, leaving her alone with her QC, and her rock star brief. Theo nods at her encouragingly. He is smartly dressed today. Ironed and suited, golden eyes blazing towards hers.

  Her QC is sitting behind the plastic desk in the middle of the visit room, next to Theo. She is about forty, with sculptured cheekbones, and a balanced face. She looks a bit like the blonde from ABBA did in her heyday. What is it with her lawyers, that they remind her of musicians? Roger Daltrey. Agnetha Fältskog. Mr Mimms? Mr Mimms’ overtired eyes do not remind her of anyone glamorous. Her mind goes blank.

  ‘Sarah Little, QC,’ Theo says enthusiastically.

  Her QC stands up and leans across the desk to shake her hand.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Sarah Little announces.

  ‘I wish I could say the same. I would be happier if we were meeting in different circumstances.’

  ‘I can’t blame you for feeling like that.’ Sarah’s voice is crisp. Her consonants clipped and decisive.

  She smiles a long, slow smile, but it is solid and contained. It doesn’t travel around her face. Sarah Little is wearing Margaret Thatcher blue that fits like a glove. White tights. Black court shoes. Nails and face perfectly manicured. What her mother would call Bandbox smart.

  ‘I just wanted to meet you.’ She pauses. ‘I understand from Theo that you would have been very happy for him to act alone if that were permitted.’ Another pause. Another contained smile. ‘I don’t blame you for having a high opinion of Theo; in my opinion, too, he is first class. But I will present in court, because that is what I am trained to do. He will continue to be your main liaison in the run-up to the trial, and please be reassured I will be relying very heavily on his work during my prep.’ There is a pause. ‘I think it will go swimmingly.’

  ‘I hope so. I hope so.’ Her voice echoes around the room, plaintive and desperate.

  Sarah Little looks at her watch. Her iPhone buzzes. ‘Sorry.’ She smiles. ‘I have to go.’

  She leaves the room, her perfectly tailored powder-blue suit caressing her perfect body. Skinny legs. Pointed knees protruding. Graceful. Poised. Important. Sarah Little. Busy and important.

  ‘See you in court,’ Sarah says casually, as she leaves, as if they are soon to meet in a pub or a restaurant. As if meeting a QC in court is perfectly normal.

  And Sarah Little is gone, leaving a little of herself behind in the room. Her solidity. Her confidence. Her perfume of gardenia.

  A comfortable silence falls.

  After a while, Theo says, ‘Sarah Little is good. She knows what she’s doing. And I am still here for you. I want you to know that.’

  She feels the pulse of his breath. The warmth of his smile. And the elastic band that was tightening in her stomach begins to relax.

  THE PAST

  66

  Zara

  This wet Wednesday evening, it’s my turn to cook. For once I actually am cooking. Only something simple from a BBC recipe: ham and cheese pasta bake. But even that, for someone like me who has never been interested in domesticity, has taken some reading and planning. It’s in the oven right now, and the comforting smell of cheese and garlic is wafting around the flat. Maybe I should try to be a domestic goddess more often. And I’ve treated us to several bottles of Rioja – perfect with cheese and ham.

  The key turns in the lock and, Miranda, you are home, hair and coat wet from the rain. Your look so low. So flat.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.

  You smile limply. ‘Nothing.’ There is a pause. ‘Apart from the rain.’ You take your coat off and hang it on the hooks by the door. You sigh. ‘I’m just tired. I’ve been working hard. Struggling with a document I’m drafting.’

  To me accountancy is so tedious, no wonder you seem stressed. I think about my sea project and my heart opens out.

  ‘Where’s Sebastian? Isn’t he back yet?’ you ask.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I smile and shrug. ‘I don’t own him.’

  ‘I thought you did.’

  Your voice sounds sharp. Always sharp at the mention of Sebastian. I know I must keep calm. One day you will learn to handle me being in love.

  Footsteps on the pavement. A key in the lock. And he is here, even wetter than you. The rain must have got worse. He grins wildly at me, moving towards me, taking me in his arms and kissing me. Rain from his coat and hair falling onto me and tickling my skin. He takes his coat off. It is so wet he hangs it in the bathroom, and then I watch him sit down at the table next to you, Miranda.

  ‘Hi there, good evening,’ he says, leaning across and kissing you on both cheeks.

  I watch you wince as he touches you, as you avoid his gaze. He likes to pull people in. You push him away.

  I carry the bake across to the table and place it down. It stands, steaming, in the middle of our small IKEA table. As I serve the food, Sebastian opens the wine and pours us a glass each.

  ‘Cheers,’ we say and clink glasses. But despite all my culinary efforts, the atmosphere between us is subdued tonight. It raises a little as we eat our food and drink our wine. At least my recipe is a success. I hope my news will liven things up.

  ‘My sea project has been selected for a prize,’ I announce as I top up our wine. ‘A bit of funding to film it.’

  Sebastian smiles. He seems so pleased for me. I look at you.

  ‘Wow,’ you say, eyes sparkling, pleased but not surprised. Letting me know you believe in me.

  ‘I’m going to Weston-super-Mare this weekend to start work on it.’

  ‘Sounds good. Can I come too?’ Sebastian asks. ‘I fancy a change of environment.’

  I put my hand on his and shake my head slowly. ‘Sorry my love. You’re too distracting. It’s just one weekend. You’ll have to stay at home.’

  67

  Miranda

  After your tasty pasta bake supper, Zara, Sebastian slips off to the pub for a quick pint, leaving us alone together to load the dishwasher. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Do you think Sebastian would mind giving the key to my flat back while you’re not here?’ I ask as nonchalantly as possible. But my voice doesn’t sound nonchalant. It is thin and strained. You stop rearranging the mugs on the top shelf, and turn around.

  ‘Why? I’m only away for two days.’

  I stand looking at you, feeling embarrassed, shifting my weight from my right to my left leg, nervously. Another deep breath.

  ‘I don’t really want him here while you are away.’

  You react as if I have hit you. Or stung you. Your body stiffens. You stand in front of me wide-eyed.

  ‘I thought he was our friend.’

  You put your hand on my arm. You push your golden eyes towards mine. ‘Miranda, I want him to feel part of our family.’ Your eyes are filling with tears. ‘Don’t make him feel excluded. You’ve been upsetting us both with your spiky attitude towards him.’ You wipe your eyes. ‘I love him so much,’ you continue. ‘Don’t antagonise him again, Miranda, please.’

  68

  Zara

  The next weekend, Sebastian helps me onto the train, and lifts all my heavy camera cases onto the overhead shelf.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right at the other end?’ he fusses, looking down at me, his eyes infused with love.

  ‘Yes, of course. Someone will help me get them down, I’m sure. Then I’m
jumping straight into a taxi, remember.’

  His eyes are still holding mine. ‘I’ll miss you, Zara.’

  ‘It’s just for the weekend. I’ll miss you too, but making this film is a big opportunity.’

  ‘I know. Good luck.’

  He leans down and kisses me. His tongue rotates around mine. It arouses me. He turns and ambles away, filling the passage of the railway carriage with his broad shoulders and toned denim-clad backside.

  As the train pulls away, leaving him on the platform with you, Miranda, I feel the passion of his kiss in my mind.

  69

  Miranda

  Friday evening after work. We wave you off from Bristol Temple Meads railway station for your filming weekend, weighed down by a plethora of camera equipment. So much so that you struggle to get on the train. Sebastian helps you carry it on board and only just manages to get off in time, as the guard blows his whistle.

  Once you’re away, he walks towards me along the platform, airing his generous smile. My insides tighten as we watch the train depart.

  ‘Freedom for the weekend. What shall we get up to?’ he exclaims, putting his arm around my shoulders. I stiffen at his touch. I feel it like a burn.

  We walk down the steps from the platform and meander towards the station exit. His arm is still around my shoulders.

  ‘I’m working most of the weekend,’ I tell him, removing it gently.

  ‘Haven’t you even got time for a quick drink at the pub tonight? I could do with a bit of company.’ He pauses. ‘Zara so wants us to be friends. Just one drink?’

  Zara’s tears haunt me, so against my better judgement I relent. ‘OK. One quick drink.’

  We go to the Roebuck. He has a pint. I have a G&T. It tastes sharper than usual – abrasive against my tongue. We share a large packet of cheese and onion crisps, ripping the bag wide open and placing them on the table between us.