FRIDAY, JULY 5, 2013
MORNING
There is a pile of clothing on the side of the traintracks. Light-blue cloth—a shirt, perhaps—jumbled upwith something dirty white. It’s probably rubbish, partof a load dumped into the scrubby little wood up thebank. It could have been left behind by the engineerswho work this part of the track, they’re here oftenenough. Or it could be something else. My motherused to tell me that I had an overactive imagination;Tom said that, too. I can’t help it, I catch sight ofthese discarded scraps, a dirty T-shirt or a lonesomeshoe, and all I can think of is the other shoe andthe feet that fitted into them.
The train jolts and scrapes and screeches back intomotion, the little pile of clothes disappears from viewand we trundle on towards London, moving at abrisk jogger’s pace. Someone in the seat behind megives a sigh of helpless irritation; the 8:04 slow trainfrom Ashbury to Euston can test the patience of themost seasoned commuter. The journey is supposedto take fifty-four minutes, but it rarely does: thissection of the track is ancient, decrepit, beset withsignalling problems and never-ending engineeringworks.
The train crawls along; it judders past warehousesand water towers, bridges and sheds, past modestVictorian houses, their backs turned squarely to thetrack.
My head leaning against the carriage window, Iwatch these houses roll past me like a tracking shotin a film. I see them as others do not; even theirowners probably don’t see them from thisperspective. Twice a day, I am offered a view intoother lives, just for a moment. There’s somethingcomforting about the sight of strangers safe at home.
Someone’s phone is ringing, an incongruously joyfuland upbeat song. They’re slow to answer, it jingleson and on around me. I can feel my fellowcommuters shift in their seats, rustle theirnewspapers, tap at their computers. The train lurchesand sways around the bend, slowing as it approachesa red signal. I try not to look up, I try to read thefree newspaper I was handed on my way into thestation, but the words blur in front of my eyes,nothing holds my interest. In my head I can still seethat little pile of clothes lying at the edge of the track,abandoned.
EVENINGThe premixed gin and tonic fizzes up over the lip ofthe can as I bring it to my mouth and sip. Tangyand cold, the taste of my first-ever holiday with Tom,a fishing village on the Basque coast in 2005. In themornings we’d swim the half mile to the little islandin the bay, make love on secret hidden beaches; inthe afternoons we’d sit at a bar drinking strong,bitter gin and tonics, watching swarms of beachfootballers playing chaotic twenty-five-a-side games onthe low-tide sands.
I take another sip, and another; the can’s alreadyhalf empty, but it’s OK, I have three more in theplastic bag at my feet. It’s Friday, so I don’t have tofeel guilty about drinking on the train. TGIF. The funstarts here.
It’s going to be a lovely weekend, that’s what they’retelling us. Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies. In theold days we might have driven to Corly Wood with apicnic and the papers, spent all afternoon lying on ablanket in dappled sunlight, drinking wine. We mighthave barbecued out back with friends, or gone to theRose and sat in the beer garden, faces flushing withsun and alcohol as the afternoon went on, weavinghome, arm in arm, falling asleep on the sofa.
Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies, no one to playwith, nothing to do. Living like this, the way I’mliving at the moment, is harder in the summer whenthere is so much daylight, so little cover of darkness,when everyone is out and about, being flagrantly,aggressively happy. It’s exhausting, and it makes youfeel bad if you’re not joining in.
The weekend stretches out ahead of me, forty-eightempty hours to fill. I lift the can to my mouth again,but there’s not a drop left.
MONDAY, JULY 8, 2013
MORNING
It’s a relief to be back on the 8:04. It’s not that Ican’t wait to get into London to start my week—Idon’t particularly want to be in London at all. I justwant to lean back in the soft, sagging velour seat,feel the warmth of the sunshine streaming throughthe window, feel the carriage rock back and forthand back and forth, the comforting rhythm of wheelson tracks. I’d rather be here, looking out at thehouses beside the track, than almost anywhere else.
There’s a faulty signal on this line, about halfwaythrough my journey. I assume it must be faulty, inany case, because it’s almost always red; we stopthere most days, sometimes just for a few seconds,sometimes for minutes on end. If I sit in carriage D,which I usually do, and the train stops at this signal,which it almost always does, I have a perfect viewinto my favourite trackside house: number fifteen.
Number fifteen is much like the other houses alongthis stretch of track: a Victorian semi, two storeyshigh, overlooking a narrow, well-tended garden thatruns around twenty feet down towards some fencing,beyond which lie a few metres of no-man’s-landbefore you get to the railway track. I know thishouse by heart. I know every brick, I know thecolour of the curtains in the upstairs bedroom (beige,with a dark-blue print), I know that the paint ispeeling off the bathroom window frame and thatthere are four tiles missing from a section of the roofover on the right-hand side.
I know that on warm summer evenings, theoccupants of this house, Jason and Jess, sometimesclimb out of the large sash window to sit on themakeshift terrace on top of the kitchen-extensionroof. They are a perfect, golden couple. He isdark-haired and well built, strong, protective, kind. Hehas a great laugh. She is one of those tinybird-women, a beauty, pale-skinned with blond haircropped short. She has the bone structure to carrythat kind of thing off, sharp cheekbones dappled witha sprinkling of freckles, a fine jaw.
While we’re stuck at the red signal, I look for them.
Jess is often out there in the mornings, especially inthe summer, drinking her coffee. Sometimes, when Isee her there, I feel as though she sees me, too, Ifeel as though she looks right back at me, and Iwant to wave. I’m too self-conscious. I don’t seeJason quite so much, he’s away a lot with work. Buteven if they’re not there, I think about what theymight be up to. Maybe this morning they’ve both gotthe day off and she’s lying in bed while he makesbreakfast, or maybe they’ve gone for a run together,because that’s the sort of thing they do. (Tom and Iused to run together on Sundays, me going atslightly above my normal pace, him at about half his,just so we could run side by side.) Maybe Jess isupstairs in the spare room, painting, or maybethey’re in the shower together, her hands pressedagainst the tiles, his hands on her hips.
EVENING
Turning slightly towards the window, my back to therest of the carriage, I open one of the little bottles ofChenin Blanc I purchased from the Whistlestop atEuston. It’s not cold, but it’ll do. I pour some into aplastic cup, screw the top back on and slip the bottleinto my handbag. It’s less acceptable to drink on thetrain on a Monday, unless you’re drinking withcompany, which I am not.
There are familiar faces on these trains, people I seeevery week, going to and fro. I recognize them andthey probably recognize me. I don’t know whetherthey see me, though, for what I really am.
It’s a glorious evening, warm but not too close, thesun starting its lazy descent, shadows lengthening andthe light just beginning to burnish the trees with gold.
The train is rattling along, we whip past Jason andJess’s place, they pass in a blur of evening sunshine.
Sometimes, not often, I can see them from this sideof the track. If there’s no train going in the oppositedirection, and if we’re travelling slowly enough, I cansometimes catch a glimpse of them out on theirterrace. If not—like today—I can imagine them. Jesswill be sitting with her feet up on the table out onthe terrace, a glass of wine in her hand, Jasonstanding behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Ican imagine the feel of his hands, the weight ofthem, reassuring and protective. Sometimes I catchmyself trying to remember the last time I hadmeaningful physical contact with another person, justa hug or a heartfelt squeeze of my hand, and myheart twitches.
TUESDAY, JULY 9, 2013
MORNING
The pile of clothes from last week is still there, and itlooks dustier and more forlorn than it did a few daysago. I read somewhere that a train can rip theclothes right off you when it hits. It’s not thatunusual, death by train. Two to three hundred ayear, they say, so at least one every couple of days.
I’m not sure how many of those are accidental. Ilook carefully, as the train rolls slowly past, for bloodon the clothes, but I can’t see any.
The train stops at the signal as usual. I can seeJess standing on the patio in front of the Frenchdoors. She’s wearing a bright print dress, her feetare bare. She’s looking over her shoulder, back intothe house; she’s probably talking to Jason, who’ll bemaking breakfast. I keep my eyes fixed on Jess, onher home, as the train starts to inch forward. I don’twant to see the other houses; I particularly don’twant to see the one four doors down, the one thatused to be mine.
I lived at number twenty-three Blenheim Road forfive years, blissfully happy and utterly wretched. Ican’t look at it now. That was my first home. Notmy parents’ place, not a flatshare with other students,my first home. I can’t bear to look at it. Well, I can,I do, I want to, I don’t want to, I try not to. Everyday I tell myself not to look, and every day I look. Ican’t help myself, even though there is nothing Iwant to see there, even though anything I do see willhurt me. Even though I remember so clearly how itfelt that time I looked up and noticed that the creamlinen blind in the upstairs bedroom was gone,replaced by something in soft baby pink; eventhough I still remember the pain I felt when I sawAnna watering the rosebushes near the fence, herT-shirt stretched tight over her bulging belly, and Ibit my lip so hard, it bled.
I close my eyes tightly and count to ten, fifteen,twenty. There, it’s gone now, nothing to see. We rollinto Witney station and out again, the train startingto pick up pace as suburbia melts into grimy NorthLondon, terraced houses replaced by tagged bridgesand empty buildings with broken windows. The closerwe get to Euston, the more anxious I feel; pressurebuilds; how will today be? There’s a filthy, low-slungconcrete building on the right-hand side of the trackabout five hundred metres before we get into Euston.
On its side, someone has painted: LIFE IS NOT APARAGRAPH. I think about the bundle of clotheson the side of the track and I feel as though mythroat is closing up. Life is not a paragraph, anddeath is no parenthesis.
EVENING
The train I take in the evening, the 5:56, is slightlyslower than the morning one—it takes one hour andone minute, a full seven minutes longer than themorning train despite not stopping at any extrastations. I don’t mind, because just as I’m in nogreat hurry to get into London in the morning, I’min no hurry to get back to Ashbury in the evening,either. Not just because it’s Ashbury, although theplace itself is bad enough, a 1960s new town,spreading like a tumour over the heart ofBuckinghamshire. No better or worse than a dozenother towns like it, a centre filled with cafés andmobile-phone shops and branches of JD Sports,surrounded by a band of suburbia and beyond thatthe realm of the multiplex cinema and out-of-townTesco. I live in a smart(ish), new(ish) block situatedat the point where the commercial heart of the placestarts to bleed into the residential outskirts, but it isnot my home. My home is the Victorian semi on thetracks, the one I part-owned. In Ashbury I am not ahomeowner, not even a tenant—I’m a lodger,occupant of the small second bedroom in Cathy’sbland and inoffensive duplex, subject to her graceand favour.
Cathy and I were friends at university. Half friends,really, we were never that close. She lived across thehall from me in my first year, and we were bothdoing the same course, so we were natural allies inthose first few daunting weeks, before we met peoplewith whom we had more in common. We didn’t seemuch of each other after the first year and barely atall after college, except for the occasional wedding.
But in my hour of need she happened to have aspare room going and it made sense. I was so surethat it would only be for a couple of months, six atthe most, and I didn’t know what else to do. I’dnever lived by myself, I’d gone from parents toflatmates to Tom, I found the idea overwhelming, soI said yes. And that was nearly two years ago.
It’s not awful. Cathy’s a nice person, in a forcefulsort of way. She makes you notice her niceness. Herniceness is writ large, it is her defining quality andshe needs it acknowledged, often, daily almost, whichcan be tiring. But it’s not so bad, I can think ofworse traits in a flatmate. No, it’s not Cathy, it’s noteven Ashbury that bothers me most about my newsituation (I still think of it as new, although it’s beentwo years). It’s the loss of control. In Cathy’s flat Ialways feel like a guest at the very outer limit of herwelcome. I feel it in the kitchen, where we jostle forspace when cooking our evening meals. I feel it whenI sit beside her on the sofa, the remote control firmlywithin her grasp. The only space that feels like mineis my tiny bedroom, into which a double bed and adesk have been crammed, with barely enough spaceto walk between them. It’s comfortable enough, but itisn’t a place you want to be, so instead I linger inthe living room or at the kitchen table, ill at easeand powerless. I have lost control over everything,even the places in my head.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 10, 2013
MORNING
The heat is building. It’s barely half past eight andalready the day is close, the air heavy with moisture.
I could wish for a storm, but the sky is an insolentblank, pale, watery blue. I wipe away the sweat onmy top lip. I wish I’d remembered to buy a bottle ofwater.
I can’t see Jason and Jess this morning, and mysense of disappointment is acute. Silly, I know. Iscrutinize the house, but there’s nothing to see. Thecurtains are open downstairs but the French doorsare closed, sunlight reflecting off the glass. The sashwindow upstairs is closed, too. Jason may be awayworking. He’s a doctor, I think, probably for one ofthose overseas organizations. He’s constantly on call,a bag packed on top of the wardrobe; there’s anearthquake in Iran or a tsunami in Asia and hedrops everything, he grabs his bag and he’s atHeathrow within a matter of hours, ready to fly outand save lives.
Jess, with her bold prints and her Converse trainersand her beauty, her attitude, works in the fashionindustry. Or perhaps in the music business, or inadvertising—she might be a stylist or a photographer.
She’s a good painter, too, plenty of artistic flair. I cansee her now, in the spare room upstairs, musicblaring, window open, a brush in her hand, anenormous canvas leaning against the wall. She’ll bethere until midnight; Jason knows not to bother herwhen she’s working.
I can’t really see her, of course. I don’t know if shepaints, or whether Jason has a great laugh, orwhether Jess has beautiful cheekbones. I can’t seeher bone structure from here and I’ve never heardJason’s voice. I’ve never seen them up close, theydidn’t live at that house when I lived down the road.
They moved in after I left two years ago, I don’tknow when exactly. I suppose I started noticing themabout a year ago, and gradually, as the months wentpast, they became important to me.
I don’t know their names, either, so I had to namethem myself. Jason, because he’s handsome in aBritish film star kind of way, not a Depp or a Pitt,but a Firth, or a Jason Isaacs. And Jess just goeswith Jason, and it goes with her. It fits her, prettyand carefree as she is. They’re a match, they’re aset. They’re happy, I can tell. They’re what I used tobe, they’re Tom and me five years ago. They’re whatI lost, they’re everything I want to be.
EVENING
My shirt, uncomfortably tight, buttons straining acrossmy chest, is pit-stained, damp patches clammybeneath my arms. My eyes and throat itch. Thisevening I don’t want the journey to stretch out; Ilong to get home, to undress and get into theshower, to be where no one can look at me.
I look at the man in the seat opposite mine. He isabout my age, early to midthirties, with dark hair,greying at the temples. Sallow skin. He’s wearing asuit, but he’s taken the jacket off and slung it on theseat next to him. He has a MacBook, paper-thin,open in front of him. He’s a slow typist. He’swearing a silver watch with a large face on his rightwrist—it looks expensive, a Breitling maybe. He’schewing the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he’snervous. Or just thinking deeply. Writing animportant email to a colleague at the office in NewYork, or a carefully worded break-up message to hisgirlfriend. He looks up suddenly and meets my eye;his glance travels over me, over the little bottle ofwine on the table in front of me. He looks away.
There’s something about the set of his mouth thatsuggests distaste. He finds me distasteful.
I am not the girl I used to be. I am no longerdesirable, I’m off-putting in some way. It’s not justthat I’ve put on weight, or that my face is puffyfrom the drinking and the lack of sleep; it’s as ifpeople can see the damage written all over me, cansee it in my face, the way I hold myself, the way Imove.
One night last week, when I left my room to getmyself a glass of water, I overheard Cathy talking toDamien, her boyfriend, in the living room. I stood inthe hallway and listened. “She’s lonely,” Cathy wassaying. “I really worry about her. It doesn’t help, herbeing alone all the time.” Then she said, “Isn’t theresomeone from work, maybe, or the rugby club?” andDamien said, “For Rachel? Not being funny, Cath,but I’m not sure I know anyone that desperate.”
THURSDAY, JULY 11, 2013
MORNING
I’m picking at the plaster on my forefinger. It’sdamp, it got wet when I was washing out my coffeemug this morning; it feels clammy, dirty, though itwas clean on this morning. I don’t want to take it offbecause the cut is deep. Cathy was out when I gothome, so I went to the off-licence and bought twobottles of wine. I drank the first one and then Ithought I’d take advantage of the fact that she wasout and cook myself a steak, make a red-onionrelish, have it with a green salad. A good, healthymeal. I sliced through the top of my finger whilechopping the onions. I must have gone to thebathroom to clean it up and gone to lie down for awhile and just forgotten all about it, because I wokeup around ten and I could hear Cathy and Damientalking and he was saying how disgusting it was thatI would leave the kitchen like that. Cathy cameupstairs to see me, she knocked softly on my doorand opened it a fraction. She cocked her head toone side and asked if I was OK. I apologized withoutbeing sure what I was apologizing for. She said itwas all right, but would I mind cleaning up a bit?
There was blood on the chopping board, the roomsmelled of raw meat, the steak was still sitting out onthe countertop, turning grey. Damien didn’t even sayhello, he just shook his head when he saw me andwent upstairs to Cathy’s bedroom.
After they’d both gone to bed I remembered that Ihadn’t drunk the second bottle, so I opened that. Isat on the sofa and watched television with thesound turned down really low so they wouldn’t hearit. I can’t remember what I was watching, but atsome point I must have felt lonely, or happy, orsomething, because I wanted to talk to someone. Theneed for contact must have been overwhelming, andthere was no one I could call except for Tom.
There’s no one I want to talk to except for Tom.
The call log on my phone says I rang four times: at11:02, 11:12, 11:54, 12:09. Judging from the length ofthe calls, I left two messages. He may even havepicked up, but I don’t remember talking to him. Iremember leaving the first message; I think I justasked him to call me. That may be what I said inboth of them, which isn’t too bad.
The train shudders to a standstill at the red signaland I look up. Jess is sitting on her patio, drinking acup of coffee. She has her feet up against the tableand her head back, sunning herself. Behind her, Ithink I can see a shadow, someone moving: Jason. Ilong to see him, to catch a glimpse of his handsomeface. I want him to come outside, to stand behindher the way he does, to kiss the top of her head.
He doesn’t come out, and her head falls forward.
There is something about the way she is movingtoday that seems different; she is heavier, weigheddown. I will him to come out to her, but the trainjolts and slogs forward and still there is no sign ofhim; she’s alone. And now, without thinking, I findmyself looking directly into my house, and I can’tlook away. The French doors are flung open, lightstreaming into the kitchen. I can’t tell, I really can’t,whether I’m seeing this or imagining it—is she there,at the sink, washing up? Is there a little girl sitting inone of those bouncy baby chairs up there on thekitchen table?
I close my eyes and let the darkness grow andspread until it morphs from a feeling of sadness intosomething worse: a memory, a flashback. I didn’tjust ask him to call me back. I remember now, Iwas crying. I told him that I still loved him, that Ialways would. Please, Tom, please, I need to talk toyou. I miss you. No no no no no no no.
I have to accept it, there’s no point trying to pushit away. I’m going to feel terrible all day, it’s going tocome in waves—stronger then weaker then strongeragain—that twist in the pit of my stomach, theanguish of shame, the heat coming to my face, myeyes squeezed tight as though I could make it alldisappear. And I’ll be telling myself all day, it’s notthe worst thing, is it? It’s not the worst thing I’veever done, it’s not as if I fell over in public, or yelledat a stranger in the street. It’s not as if I humiliatedmy husband at a summer barbecue by shoutingabuse at the wife of one of his friends. It’s not as ifwe got into a fight one night at home and I wentfor him with a golf club, taking a chunk out of theplaster in the hallway outside the bedroom. It’s notlike going back to work after a three-hour lunch andstaggering through the office, everyone looking, MartinMiles taking me to one side, I think you shouldprobably go home, Rachel. I once read a book bya former alcoholic where she described giving oralsex to two different men, men she’d just met in arestaurant on a busy London high street. I read itand I thought, I’m not that bad. This is where thebar is set.
EVENING
I have been thinking about Jess all day, unable tofocus on anything but what I saw this morning.
What was it that made me think that something waswrong? I couldn’t possibly see her expression at thatdistance, but I felt when I was looking at her thatshe was alone. More than alone—lonely. Perhaps shewas—perhaps he’s away, gone to one of those hotcountries he jets off to to save lives. And she misseshim, and she worries, although she knows he has togo.
Of course she misses him, just as I do. He is kindand strong, everything a husband should be. Andthey are a partnership. I can see it, I know howthey are. His strength, that protectiveness he radiates,it doesn’t mean she’s weak. She’s strong in otherways; she makes intellectual leaps that leave himopenmouthed in admiration. She can cut to the nubof a problem, dissect and analyse it in the time ittakes other people to say good morning. At parties,he often holds her hand, even though they’ve beentogether years. They respect each other, they don’tput each other down.
I feel exhausted this evening. I am sober, stone-cold.
Some days I feel so bad that I have to drink; somedays I feel so bad that I can’t. Today, the thought ofalcohol turns my stomach. But sobriety on theevening train is a challenge, particularly now, in thisheat. A film of sweat covers every inch of my skin,the inside of my mouth prickles, my eyes itch,mascara rubbed into their corners.
My phone buzzes in my handbag, making me jump.
Two girls sitting across the carriage look at me andthen at each other, with a sly exchange of smiles. Idon’t know what they think of me, but I know itisn’t good. My heart is pounding in my chest as Ireach for the phone. I know this will be nothinggood, either: it will be Cathy, perhaps, asking meever so nicely to maybe give the booze a rest thisevening? Or my mother, telling me that she’ll be inLondon next week, she’ll drop by the office, we cango for lunch. I look at the screen. It’s Tom. I hesitatefor just a second and then I answer it.
“Rachel?”
For the first five years I knew him, I was neverRachel, always Rach. Sometimes Shelley, because heknew I hated it and it made him laugh to watch metwitch with irritation and then giggle because Icouldn’t help but join in when he was laughing.
“Rachel, it’s me.” His voice is leaden, he soundsworn out. “Listen, you have to stop this, OK?” Idon’t say anything. The train is slowing, and we arealmost opposite the house, my old house. I want tosay to him, Come outside, go and stand on thelawn. Let me see you. “Please, Rachel, you can’t callme like this all the time. You’ve got to sort yourselfout.” There is a lump in my throat as hard as apebble, smooth and obstinate. I cannot swallow. Icannot speak. “Rachel? Are you there? I know thingsaren’t good with you, and I’m sorry for you, I reallyam, but?.?.?. I can’t help you, and these constant callsare really upsetting Anna. OK? I can’t help youanymore. Go to AA or something. Please, Rachel. Goto an AA meeting after work today.”
I pull the filthy plaster off the end of my finger andlook at the pale, wrinkled flesh beneath, dried bloodcaked at the edge of my fingernail. I press thethumbnail of my right hand into the centre of thecut and feel it open up, the pain sharp and hot. Icatch my breath. Blood starts to ooze from thewound. The girls on the other side of the carriageare watching me, their faces blank.