“And then I come back here, and you’re looking at pictures of your ex?”
“I can explain.” The tremor to my voice is entirely real. “I remembered that I still had photos of him. And it didn’t feel right to have them. Not when what we have is so good. I was about to delete them.”
It is a flimsy lie, but the words trip over themselves in their haste to leave my mouth, which adds a nice legitimacy to what I am saying. He’s doing that thing again; his eyes dart over me as though he is trying to read the lie on my face, but I don’t make amateur mistakes. Not anymore. I keep my eyes fixed on his, reach out, interlace our fingers. “You know it’s you, Jack,” I say, voice low and earnest. “It’s always been you.”
And when he doesn’t resist, I stretch onto my tiptoes and give him a swift kiss on the cheek. He nods his acceptance when I lower back down. Like—once again—he was only searching for confirmation of my dedication to him.
“Just get rid of them,” he says roughly, and I am so pleased to have avoided another meltdown, I nod vigorously. I won’t, though. I need to keep these photos as a reminder of how wrong a relationship can go. “After dinner, OK?”
My cooking skills have improved dramatically already. Turns out, practice really does make perfect. I do, admittedly, try extra hard for dinner that night, to make up for my faux pas, and, as I pull the chicken out of the oven, I congratulate myself on my versatility. I am excelling at the parochial gender roles of a half century ago, though I’m not entirely sure that’s something to boast about.
After dinner, Jack reminds me to delete the photographs of Freddie, and I make a show of collecting my laptop, tilting the screen slightly away from him so he can’t see that I’m simply moving them into another folder.
It does strike me that now would be a good opportunity to ask to see a photograph of Alice—quid pro quo and all that—but there is still afaint crackle of tension in the air, and I don’t want to rock the boat. We sit on the sofa and the chest seems to wink at me from the corner. I’ve had no luck getting into it, despite renewed efforts to find the key and—when that failed—pick the lock. It’s a skill I realize I should really have taught myself earlier. It would have saved me a whole lot of trouble.
I haven’t forgotten Jack’s reaction when I asked about Alice being in remission. The way his eyes shot to the left. And I can’t help but feel that the answers may be contained in that chest. I don’t like the idea that he might still be hiding something from me. Honesty and trust form the foundation for any good relationship, after all. And, while I am going to great lengths to prove my dedication to him, he seems to have forgotten that it’s a two-way street.
Thirty-seven
The next afternoona woman approaches me. Another slow morning with nothing to do except plan the next meal, and I was itching to leave the house. I don’t know how Alice endured it: the monotony. The endless hours that yawned and stretched and languished.Iam languishing. I tell myself I don’t mind, that this is all part of the plan. I remind myself how special our bond is, that this—the clothes, the adopted traits—are a way of proving to him that I care. Sometimes, though, it’s not quite enough. Sometimes it all feels a little boring.
I’m sure it’s the reason I’ve become so caught up by the past in recent days, craving that excitement again. That sense of drive and perseverance. Of finally getting what you want.
Conscious that I was descending into self-pity—always dangerous for someone of my constitution—I left the house. I had a vague plan to stop by the café, anticipating the onslaught of sympathy that Mick would provide, but I don’t get that far. Because there is a shout from behind me as I turn off Jack’s road, and I swing round to see a woman marching toward me.
“Has he got you wearing her clothes?” She delivers this with so much anger and aggression, I take an involuntary step backward.
This woman is blond, red-lipped, and furious. Her face is twisted with it. And I realize I’m glad of it. I’d take anything at this point. Anything to shatter the boredom.
“I asked you a question.” Her jaw is set, eyes narrowed. Her accent bears the distinct trace of money and good breeding: clipped consonants, rounded vowels.
“I’m sorry,” I say calmly. “I have absolutely no idea who you are.” And I don’t.
“Well, why would you? You’re just the stranger who jumped into her bed when it was barely cold.”
I think we can safely assume she is talking about Alice. People always get so tedious about honoring memories, like the deceased are sentient, not decaying corpses that are currently six feet under and riddled with worms or burned to a cinder and scattered to the wind. Like they are beings that continue to live and breathe among us. It’s all bollocks. That’s the point of death. They’re gone, and any claim they hold over those they’ve left behind should have evaporated with them.
But I’m not one to miss an opportunity to take the moral high ground when it’s presented to me. “I’m sorry,” I say in a dignified manner. “Are you talking about Alice Reynolds?”
“Yes, I’m talking about Alice Reynolds,” she spits.
“Hasn’t she been dead for, what—six, seven months now?”
I know the exact date, of course—it’s the same as Freddie’s unfortunate departure from this world—but I’m enjoying how her face is reddening.
“Which,” she says, “is absolutely no time at all. So I’ll ask you again: Has he got you wearing her clothes?”
Truth be told, I am in Alice’s clothes again, and Jack did pick themfor me. They were laid out on the bed, like yesterday, but this time he’d placed a pair of underwear on top. Not my usual choice: Comfort is key, and thongs always make me feel like I’m being split in half; but I sighed and put on the lacy garment anyway.
“Yes,” I say. No acting necessary. It’s the truth, which makes a nice change.
“That sick fuck,” she says, and she takes a step away from me. “Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
The hysteria is starting to get dull. “Look,” I say, holding out a conciliatory palm. “I can see you’re upset and I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes. But Alice isdead. She’s not coming back. And the way I see it, better for me to be wearing her things than them rotting in a cupboard. No need for clothes where she’s gone.”
She stares at me, eyes wide, then takes a step backward and begins shaking her head. “You’re just like him. I’ve been trying to call you—to warn you—but clearly you don’t need my help.”
“No,” I say, and I shrug. “I don’t.”
