THURSDAY, JUNE 13, 2013
MORNING
I can’t sleep in this heat. Invisible bugs crawl overmy skin, I have a rash on my chest, I can’t getcomfortable. And Scott seems to radiate warmth;lying next to him is like lying next to a fire. I can’tget far enough away from him and find myselfclinging to the edge of the bed, sheets thrown back.
It’s intolerable. I thought about going to lie down onthe futon in the spare room, but he hates to wakeand find me gone, it always leads to a row aboutsomething. Alternative uses for the spare room,usually, or who I was thinking about while I waslying there alone. Sometimes I want to scream athim, Just let me go. Let me go. Let me breathe.
So I can’t sleep, and I’m angry. I feel as thoughwe’re having a fight already, even though the fight’sonly in my imagination.
And in my head, thoughts go round and round andround.
I feel like I’m suffocating.
When did this house become so bloody small?
When did my life become so boring? Is this reallywhat I wanted? I can’t remember. All I know is thata few months ago I was feeling better, and now Ican’t think and I can’t sleep and I can’t draw andthe urge to run is becoming overwhelming. At nightwhen I lie awake I can hear it, quiet but unrelenting,undeniable: a whisper in my head, Slip away. WhenI close my eyes, my head is filled with images of pastand future lives, the things I dreamed I wanted, thethings I had and threw away. I can’t get comfortable,because every way I turn I run into dead ends: theclosed gallery, the houses on this road, the stiflingattentions of the tedious Pilates women, the track atthe end of the garden with its trains, always takingsomeone else to somewhere else, reminding me overand over and over, a dozen times a day, that I’mstaying put.
I feel as though I’m going mad.
And yet just a few months ago, I was feeling better,I was getting better. I was fine. I was sleeping. Ididn’t live in fear of the nightmares. I could breathe.
Yes, I still wanted to run away. Sometimes. But notevery day.
Talking to Kamal helped me, there’s no denyingthat. I liked it. I liked him. He made me happier.
And now all that feels so unfinished—I never got tothe crux of it. That’s my fault, of course, because Ibehaved stupidly, like a child, because I didn’t likefeeling rejected. I need to learn to lose a little better.
I’m embarrassed now, ashamed. My face goes hot atthe thought of it. I don’t want that to be his finalimpression of me. I want him to see me again, tosee me better. And I do feel that if I went to him,he would help. He’s like that.
I need to get to the end of the story. I need to tellsomeone, just once. Say the words out loud. If itdoesn’t come out of me, it’ll eat me up. The holeinside me, the one they left, it’ll just get bigger andbigger until it consumes me.
I’m going to have to swallow my pride and myshame and go to him. He’s going to have to listen.
I’ll make him.
EVENING
Scott thinks I’m at the cinema with Tara. I’ve beenoutside Kamal’s flat for fifteen minutes, psychingmyself up to knock on the door. I’m so afraid of theway he’s going to look at me, after last time. I haveto show him that I’m sorry, so I’ve dressed the part:
plain and simple, jeans and T-shirt, hardly anymakeup. This is not about seduction, he has to seethat.
I can feel my heart starting to race as I step up tohis front door and press the bell. No one comes.
The lights are on, but no one comes. Perhaps hehas seen me outside, lurking; perhaps he’s upstairs,just hoping that if he ignores me I’ll go away. Iwon’t. He doesn’t know how determined I can be.
Once I’ve made my mind up, I’m a force to bereckoned with.
I ring again, and then a third time, and finally Ihear footsteps on the stairs and the door opens.
He’s wearing tracksuit bottoms and a white T-shirt.
He’s barefoot, wet-haired, his face flushed.
“Megan.” Surprised, but not angry, which is a goodstart. “Are you all right? Is everything all right?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and he steps back to let me in. Ifeel a rush of gratitude so strong, it feels almost likelove.
He shows me into the kitchen. It’s a mess: washingup piled on the counter and in the sink, emptytakeaway cartons spilling out of the bin. I wonder ifhe’s depressed. I stand in the doorway; he leansagainst the counter opposite me, his arms foldedacross his chest.
“What can I do for you?” he asks. His face isarranged into a perfectly neutral expression, histherapist face. It makes me want to pinch him, justto make him smile.
“I have to tell you?.?.?.” I start, and then I stopbecause I can’t just plunge straight into it, I need apreamble. So I change tack. “I wanted to apologize,”
I say, “for what happened. Last time.”
“That’s OK,” he says. “Don’t worry about that. Ifyou need to talk to someone, I can refer you tosomeone else, but I can’t—”
“Please, Kamal.”
“Megan, I can’t counsel you any longer.”
“I know. I know that. But I can’t start over withsomeone else. I can’t. We got so far. We were soclose. I just have to tell you. Just once. And then I’llbe gone, I promise. I won’t ever bother you again.”
He cocks his head to one side. He doesn’t believeme, I can tell. He thinks that if he lets me back innow, he’ll never be rid of me.
“Hear me out, please. This isn’t going to go onforever, I just need someone to listen.”
“Your husband?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“I can’t—I can’t tell him. Not after all this time. Hewouldn’t?.?.?. He wouldn’t be able to see me as meany longer. I’d be someone else to him. He wouldn’tknow how to forgive me. Please, Kamal. If I don’tspit out the poison, I feel like I’ll never sleep. As afriend, not a therapist, please listen.”
His shoulders drop a little as he turns away, and Ithink it’s over. My heart sinks. Then he opens acupboard and pulls out two tumblers.
“As a friend, then. Would you like some wine?”
He shows me into the living room. Dimly lit bystanding lamps, it has the same air of domesticneglect as the kitchen. We sit down on opposite sidesof a glass table piled high with papers, magazinesand takeaway menus. My hands are locked aroundmy glass. I take a sip. It’s red but cold, dusty. Iswallow, take another sip. He’s waiting for me tostart, but it’s hard, harder than I thought it wasgoing to be. I’ve kept this secret for so long—adecade, more than a third of my life. It’s not thateasy, letting go of it. I just know that I have to starttalking. If I don’t do it now, I might never have thecourage to say the words out loud, I might lose themaltogether, they might stick in my throat and chokeme in my sleep.
“After I left Ipswich, I moved in with Mac, into hiscottage outside Holkham at the end of the lane. Itold you that, didn’t I? It was very isolated, a coupleof miles to the nearest neighbour, a couple more tothe nearest shops. At the beginning, we had lots ofparties, there were always a few people crashed outin the living room or sleeping in the hammockoutside in the summer. But we got tired of that, andMac fell out with everyone eventually, so peoplestopped coming, and it was the two of us. Days usedto go by and we wouldn’t see anyone. We’d do ourgrocery shopping at the petrol station. It’s odd,thinking back on it, but I needed it then, aftereverything—after Ipswich and all those men, all thethings I did. I liked it, just Mac and me and the oldrailway tracks and the grass and the dunes and therestless grey sea.”
Kamal tilts his head to one side, gives me half asmile. I feel my insides flip. “It sounds nice. But doyou think you are romanticizing? ‘The restless greysea’?”
“Never mind that,” I say, waving him away. “Andno, in any case. Have you been to north Norfolk?
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