Astonishing Splashes of Colour Read online

  “What did she say?” I can see his eyes watching me briefly in his mirror, before he pulls out into the passing traffic.

  “She gave me a prescription and I’ve got to go back in three weeks.”

  He nods approvingly. “We’ll stop at the chemist’s on the way back then.”

  We drive along in silence. James doesn’t look happy.

  “By the way,” says Adrian into the silence, “I phoned Jake. Suzy isn’t pregnant. She has a tummy bug.”

  A knot reties itself inside me. I think of Suzy’s sickness. I know I’m right. Why is nobody admitting it?

  3

  a good silence

  The telephone wakes me from a deep sleep and I hear the answer machine: “Kitty? It’s Caroline. Where are you? I’ve been ringing you for days.”

  I pick up the receiver and interrupt her message. “Sorry, Caroline. I haven’t been well.”

  “You shouldn’t cut yourself off completely. What if there was an emergency?”

  “Do you mean my emergency, or someone else’s emergency, which I am expected to attend?” I can’t think of a single situation that could arise. I experienced my only emergency three years ago, and there’s no chance of that happening again.

  “Have you read the book?” Caroline does not like to be drawn into personal conversations.

  “Of course.” Which book is she talking about? I hold the telephone between my chin and shoulder while I start to scrabble through a pile of manuscripts on the floor.

  “What did you think?”

  “About what?”

  “Well—was it perceptive or was it racist?”

  I hold up a manuscript in my hand, entitled Bella the Black Beauty. I think it sounds sexist rather than racist, but I can’t remember reading it. “I’ll send you a report tomorrow.”

  “Can’t you tell me now?”

  “No. I really think I should go through it again. I don’t like making quick judgements.”

  “Well, all right.” She sounds impressed by my willingness to read it again. “But I must have it back by Friday.”

  “No trouble,” I say and ring off. I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but I’m ready for some hard work.

  I dress quickly and look at myself in the mirror. Not too bad, I think, for an insomniac who has possibly been asleep for days.

  The telephone rings again. I pick it up. “Hello, James.”

  There is a pause. “Kitty? How did you know it was me?”

  Not, how are you? I’ve missed you.

  “I guessed.”

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  “No. I’ll come to you.” I know he’s sighing with relief, silently, because he’s always polite. He has problems with the chaos of my flat. “Put the kettle on.”

  Before leaving, I go into the bathroom and pick up the bottle of pills that Adrian made me fetch from the chemist. Take two tablets in the morning after eating, the label says. Do not drive or operate machinery if drowsy. Avoid alcohol.

  I have read all this before. The sight of the pills in my hand makes me feel sick. I know what they taste like, the way they affect my mood. I sit down on the edge of the bath, trembling, my legs suddenly weak. The pills rattle in the bottle. I pour them all into my hand—small white tablets, innocent, potent, offering false hope, undermining my grief—

  I pour them down the loo and flush it. Most of them float to the surface, so I wait for the cistern to fill and flush it again.

  When they still refuse to go away, I scoop them up and bury them in the wastepaper basket, under the empty toilet rolls and discarded toothpaste tubes.

  As I shut my front door behind me James’s door opens, and we stand looking at each other.

  “So,” he says eventually. “Have you eaten?”

  “What do you think?” He knows I forget to eat. Why does he pretend?

  He puts a hand on my elbow and leads me into his flat. I wish he would stop and hold me properly, but he likes to be careful.

  We go into the kitchen, which is as immaculate as it was when I first saw it. I’ve made no impression on his home. But then, he’s made no impression on mine. I sit up straighter and feel better. His outward appearance is deceptive, anyway. He is spinning so fast that all the colours in his life overlap and blur, become white. Shiny, pure, unreal white.

  “How’s work?” I don’t really want to know, but I would like him to start talking.

  “Good. You know I’ve started to do some work for an American firm?”

  I didn’t know, but I’m not sure if that’s because he hasn’t told me, or because I don’t listen. I nod.

  “They want me to go over to New York sometime—to meet them.” He pauses. “What do you think?”

  I stare at him in amazement. As long as I have known him he has never wanted to go anywhere. I had to force him to buy tickets to Venice for our honeymoon. “Really?” I say.

  “Well, it was just a thought.”

  “I think it’s a brilliant thought. Can I come too?” This is a test. I want to see his reaction.

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, of course.” Ninety percent for a quick response. Ten percent off because he was too quick. He might have prepared himself in advance.

  “Let’s do it,” I say. “Tomorrow.” I can read Caroline’s book all night. Who cares? Why shouldn’t we do something exciting?

  “Tomorrow?” He looks appalled. “I can’t. I have too much work to do.”

  “So? Make them wait. The world is at your feet.” I realize I’m getting a bit carried away, and try to talk more sensibly. “Anyway, we have to stop spinning occasionally—let the colours show—like a kaleidoscope or merry-go-round—the colours blur if you go too fast—it’s a spectrum. You know—white—”

  He is about to drink some coffee, but he stops with the cup just under his lip. I rather hope he might spill it, but he doesn’t. He puts it down again. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Come on. Why don’t we?”

  “Well …” I can see he is thinking about it seriously.

  “What time is it?”

  He looks at his watch. “Six o’clock.”

  I assume he must mean six in the evening, not six in the morning. I would like to know what day it is, but presumably I’ll find this out soon. “Let’s have a Chinese takeaway and discuss our holiday. We could phone for tickets and pick them up at the airport.”

  I know I’m talking too fast, but suddenly everything seems possible. When I woke up, I’d lost my sense of time. Now everything fits my mood and appetite exactly.

  While James goes to fetch the food, I put plates to warm under the grill and lay the table. James likes things to be done properly. We eat more frequently in his flat than mine, because he can’t relax until he has personally washed everything. I don’t mind. I just invite him round when my kitchen needs cleaning and I don’t feel like doing it.

  While I wait for him, I read Bella the Black Beauty. I turn the pages very fast and I’m halfway through when James returns with sweet and sour pork, egg fried rice and barbecued spare ribs. I attack it with enormous pleasure. James is more careful and takes smaller helpings. He watches me. “Not so fast, Kitty, you’ll make yourself ill.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Until next time, I can hear him thinking. But there won’t be a next time. There are no more mornings in my life, no more yellow—I know I can’t see Emily and Rosie again. I’m moving forwards now—into the unknown …

  We eat until we’re full and leave the dishes in the kitchen while we take coffee into the lounge. I gave him a wonderful Chinese rug two years ago, brilliant gold dragons breathing flames of red and orange, which added life and movement to the room. He said he liked it and it stayed on the floor for a month. Then, one day, it was gone. He had rolled it up and hidden it, or even put it out for the dustbin lorry. I knew then, clearly, why I kept my flat. The huge emptiness of his was too much like the huge emptiness inside me.

&nb
sp; He has, however, recently bought a coffee table, quite a nice one, in pale wood, of course. I’m frightened to put my hot coffee mug on it, in case it leaves a stain, so the table sits between our two leather chairs looking functional but unused, while our mugs sit reproachfully on the floor.

  “Come on, James,” I say, pulling my feet up on to the chair. “Let’s do something crazy for once and just go. We’d be back before anybody noticed we were gone.”

  He looks unhappy and sips his coffee. “It’s just—” I wait. “I think we should be a bit more organized. Contact my people in New York, tell them when we’re coming, so they can book us a hotel and find someone to show you around while I’m working.”

  “I don’t want anyone to show me round. Surely you’ll have some time free?”

  “Yes, of course. But we’ll need at least a week to organize it—”

  “Let’s compromise. We could go in four days’ time.”

  He grins. “All right. I’ll ring them tomorrow and start the arrangements.”

  “But don’t ask for someone to show me round.”

  He smiles. “OK.”

  We sit and look at each other, shocked by our daring. We are acting impetuously. We are doing something we want to do without consulting anyone else. I’m usually too scared, James is usually too careful. “I’ve always wanted to go to New York,” I say.

  “Adrian says it’s worth going up the Empire State Building. Apparently there’s a glass floor and you can look down at the whole of New York beneath your feet.”

  I didn’t know he talked to Adrian. I certainly didn’t know he listened to him. “We’ll have to go up the Statue of Liberty.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea. It’s very crowded and you have to queue for a long time.”

  “That’s all right,” I say. “We’ll be on holiday. There won’t be any rush.”

  “I’ll have to spend time working—”

  “I know, I know. But that’s all right too. We’re going to do what we want to do.” I’d be happy to stay in bed, or read and wait comfortably for him.

  We sit together in silence for a while. This is what I have always liked about James. We can make a good silence together. There’s something between us that doesn’t need words or actions. It settles around us and I can feel it now, hovering gently, ready to wrap me in its nebulous folds, like a delicate lace shawl. I want it to be like this always, something inside us meeting and holding hands, something calm and soothing and healing.

  “I have to finish this book,” I say. “I’ve promised Caroline I’ll send it tomorrow.”

  He smiles gently. This is when I love him the most, when he accepts me as I am and likes me to do what I want to do. “Of course. I’ll go and wash up and then I’ll do some work myself.”

  He gives me some paper and pencils and lurches off into the kitchen with the coffee cups. I hear him moving around in the kitchen, washing and drying. He never leaves anything to drain. I feel a contentment that I’m always looking for but seldom reach, and then only for a few fleeting moments. I know it won’t last. There are just a handful of good moments in a great long life. Like eating one good meal in a year of starvation.

  We work quietly together. The sound of his clicking keys soothes me. I finish the book and jot down my immediate thoughts. I enjoyed it; the title just needs to be more sensible.

  I stand up, and move towards James at his desk. He stands up at exactly the same moment and we meet in the middle of the room. This is why I married him.

  I put my arms round him and lean my head on his shoulder. He holds me and strokes my hair. We go quickly to the bedroom because we’re not very good standing together. I’m taller than him and the geometry isn’t quite right. None of the angles or straight lines line up properly.

  When I wake, the clock says seven A.M. James is lying with his back against mine, warm and relaxed. I want this moment to be with me all the time, so there is no future, so that this is my life. Everything else is illusion, a world of false colour. Perhaps if I don’t move, it will go on and on and there will be no more emptiness inside me.

  But there is something about my waking that wakes James, as if he catches our silence leaking away. He seems to know that I

  am thinking real thoughts and not dream thoughts. He rolls over and puts his face against my shoulder, his arm circling me gently, lovingly.

  “Are you awake?” he whispers.

  “Mmmm.”

  “I wish—”

  He doesn’t finish because I know what he wishes. I know he wants to wake up every morning and find me there. But I can’t do it. There are only certain times, when I feel right and he feels right. Then his white slows down so that all the yellows and blues and reds in his spectrum meet mine and merge, complementing the frenetic whirls of colour inside me. We look at each other and we match. Things can only work if we can share the colours out properly, evenly, between us.

  “Kitty?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Are you taking your pills?”

  The comfortable warmth between us zooms abruptly away. I push his arm off me and climb out of bed. “I have work to do,” I say.

  I get dressed with my back to him. I pick up my book and papers that he’s left neatly stacked on the coffee table and I let myself out.

  I don’t really know why I’m crying.

  WE TAKE THE TRAIN TO LONDON and a taxi to Heathrow. It’s hugely expensive, but James earns a lot of money and we don’t often spend it. We only have hand luggage, because we don’t possess any suitcases, and we couldn’t find much to put in them if we did.

  “We’ll buy what we need,” says James. “Everything’s cheaper in New York.”

  I’m very excited about going abroad. For our honeymoon, we travelled to Venice by ferry and train. I couldn’t sleep on the train and spent my time trying to see out, even in the dark. We raced past places and names I’d only ever seen on a map—Paris, Geneva, Milan. I wanted to see them all and keep hold of them in case I never went there again.

  We leave Birmingham barely awake, and arrive at Heathrow in the cold grey of early morning. There is a bleakness about the time, and I imagine the rest of England just waking, preparing to live through another ordinary day. We’re escaping. I want to jump up and race around like a toddler, shouting with joy. It’s so difficult sitting still and pretending to be patient.

  We listen carefully to the announcements and follow directions. The departure lounge is full of slumbering people.

  “Did I remember to turn off the central heating?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose idea was it to come at this ridiculous hour?”

  “Yours.”

  “Do you think they really give us boiled sweets?”

  “No idea.”

  After a time, I realize that James isn’t as excited as I am. I lean against him and pretend to doze, jumping every time there’s an announcement, but James feels hard and rigid. I wonder if he’s nervous about meeting the Americans.

  “I’m sure they’ll like you,” I mutter, but he gives no sign that he’s heard me.

  Finally our announcement comes and we join the group of people forming a new queue. We board a bus and get driven to our aeroplane which looks like a toy in the distance. It gets bigger and bigger until suddenly it’s real, and we’re making our way up the steps.

  “It’s very easy, isn’t it?” I say to James. “Anyone could do it.”

  He doesn’t answer. His face is set into an artificial expression of endurance. Someone jostles him from behind as we try to get into our seats and he stumbles forward.

  It’s a middle-aged man with glasses. “Sorry,” he says kindly, offering his hand to help James to stabilize himself.

  James ignores him and pushes me into the window seat, sitting down heavily next to me. I smile at the man who jostled us and he smiles back. “Sorry,” I say, feeling my good spirits draining rapidly away.

  James is white and angry. “Don’t ap
ologize for me,” he says through tight lips.

  “What’s the matter?” I’ve never seen him like this before.

  He is breathing heavily, in and out through his mouth so that I can hear it. There are trickles of sweat running down his forehead, getting caught in the creases round his mouth.

  “Are you all right?”

  He gives a strange, drawn-out groan and gets clumsily to his feet.

  “James,” I say in alarm.

  But he’s gone. I’m sitting in an aeroplane bound for New York, and my husband, who’s holding the tickets and passports, is not here. I feel a vibration through my seat, and I’m sure that the engines have started and we’re about to leave. I leap up and grab our bags, stumbling over the legs of the people sitting next to us.

  “Sorry,” I say, “sorry,” as if it will somehow save me. “Sorry. Only my husband—he doesn’t seem to be well—”

  They nod and smile, but they don’t care. They have their own well-being to worry about. I reach the gangway, but he’s not here. I don’t know which way he’s gone. People are still finding their seats, so I have to force my way through them to the exit.

  I find James arguing with a stewardess. “Let me off,” he is saying very deliberately. “I have to get off.”

  The stewardess is about six inches taller than he is, with red hair. She doesn’t look pleased and is trying to bar the doorway, to push James back in.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to her. “I think we should get off.”

  “Don’t apologize,” says James through clenched teeth. “Let me out, woman.”

  “We can’t delay the takeoff,” she says.

  She’s still trying to look professional, but a button has popped open on her blouse and we can see her bra—black with tiny pink roses along the top. Strands of wiry, red hair are bursting out from her hair clip. Why doesn’t she just let us go?

  A uniformed man comes running up the steps from behind her. He’s putting the end of a banana into his mouth and is still holding the skin. He chews quickly and swallows. “What’s going on?”