Cuckoo (aka Claire, Darling)

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

When I wake in the morning, the bed is empty again. It shouldn’t shock me, but it still sends a hollow pain through my chest. The memory of Noah kissing that blonde woman last night flashes before me and I bring a hand to my heart because I can almost physically feel it breaking, the pain shooting through to my back.

I wring the bare space on my finger where, just yesterday, a golden band of love sat. It feels horribly empty now, the space gnawing away at my finger bone. I clench my fist shut. I can’t believe he didn’t come home. He chose her .

Staggering to the kitchen, I see that, once again, Sukhi has cleared up my mess, this time placing the photograph of Noah and me in the bin alongside the glass shards from the frame. I physically wince as the Claire smiling at me from the bin morphs into the blonde woman, Noah’s arm wrapped around her instead.

Who is this woman Noah has left me for, and why has he chosen her? I stumble over to the sink and forget a glass, drinking directly from the tap instead, desperate to give my body the bare minimum it needs to function so I can resume my social media investigation. Then I pour myself a coffee, quickly throw back a glass of water for my headache, and drag my laptop up to my seat at the table.

He chose her.

The familiar blue branding of Facebook lights up my screen and I ignore the ‘Log in’ button and instead click the green ‘Create new account’ button. When it asks for my name, I type in Emma Smith. A generic name. A name easily forgotten. With trembling fingers, I search Noah’s name and confirm that Sukhi was right. There he is, profile photo grinning and accompanied by the spotty teenage Noah Coors, and the two across the pond. He had blocked my Claire Arundale profile. But Emma Smith can find him, and she clicks onto his page. No new updates since last night. I’d like to think it’s because he’s crying, lost without me, figuring out the best way to get me back and rectify his lies. But then I imagine he and the dimpled blonde from the photograph making passionate love while I lie in my cold bed alone.

My hands clench.

I have an admission to make.

I was a virgin when I met Noah.

Boys had never taken an interest in me at school, and I was too painfully shy ever to approach them myself. I had convinced myself I was not worthy of male attention. The thought of sex, if I’m honest, made me feel sick. It brought up horrible memories from my childhood, of my drunken mother sneaking different men into our home after a night out. I would lie in bed and listen to them moaning and grunting, the mattress protesting through the paper-thin walls.

There was one particularly horrific incident when I was fifteen years old. Mother had been out for the evening, and for once I hadn’t heard her come back home. She must have crept in at some point after I’d fallen asleep, and she hadn’t been alone. The man she had brought back with her was so drunk that, after a toilet break, he’d stumbled into my room instead of hers, climbing into my bed beside me where he passed out.

The clammy heat from his body had made me so uncomfortable that I’d woken up some time later. I’d frozen in confusion and fear, a large hand holding on to my hip from behind. I remember my heart seemed to stop for a second, before going into overdrive, adrenaline driving me as I turned around and realised that I had awoken to a hairy, naked body beside me, the reeking smell of Jack Daniel’s wafting out of his open mouth. I felt his soft, flaccid cock pressing against my back.

I tried to scream, but it came out a strange, strangled sound; half-gasp, half-whimper. I scrambled away from him so quickly I fell out of bed. I landed hard and bruised my tailbone but continued crawling away from the bed until I was against the wall. I kept trying to scream but it came out in a wild, breathy croak. He awoke with a start, looking over at me in confusion.

‘What the—’

‘Get out!’ I gasped, chest tight with panic.

He sat up groggily, blinking into the darkness and rubbing the back of his head.

My heart was thumping in my chest, adrenaline causing my legs to shake.

The commotion must have woken Mother because she rushed to my bedroom door in record time. I looked at her, terrified, desperate for some comfort. Instead, she had taken in the scene: me, clutching my bedtime T-shirt hemline, knees up against my wardrobe door, and him, naked and confused in my bed. She laughed then, throwing her head back as though the entire ordeal was one big joke. He sheepishly joined in after a moment of drunken confusion, while I sat there in silence, trembling. But when he got up and scurried out of my room, covering himself with one of my pillows, she paused before shutting the door. As she looked at me her eyes were hard, and I knew I was in for it.

As soon as I heard the door close behind him in the morning, I felt a change in the air. My body tensed, ready for an altercation, and sure enough I heard Mother’s footsteps charging for my bedroom. I braced myself. She flung the door open, strode over to me quickly and slapped me across the face. It took me by surprise; I’d thought I was going to get a telling-off. She rarely hit me, but when she did I found it somehow easier to handle than her words. I gasped, bringing my hand to the hot sting of my cheek.

‘You disgusting, jealous little slag!’ she hissed. ‘To even think any man would be interested in you. You’re pathetic, an embarrassment. No one will ever find you desirable… you’re repulsive,’ she seethed, leaning in so close that her spittle flecked my eyes and I had to blink it away. ‘You will never be loved by anyone other than me,’ she said, and with such certainty that I felt it in my very core.

I had believed she was right. After all, I was nothing like her. Men fawned over her glamorous elfin features and buxom curves. Her extravagant costume jewellery and tippy-tap heels. Her quick wit and outgoing banter. She was nothing like me, so it stood to reason that no man would ever desire me.

Until Noah.

Noah had changed everything. When we’d made love for the first time it had been magical.There was nothing clichéd about it, no fireworks at the window, no flickering candle flames dancing across shadowed walls. Just me, him, and the feeling that this was how my life was supposed to be. That this was right.

I look down at the profile photograph he’s chosen. He stares back at me from the screen, and I imagine him with the blonde again. I reimagine the night I lost my virginity to him, but instead of me with Noah, it’s her. It’s not my floral Brazilian briefs he’s removing, it’s a black lacy thong. It’s not my gently sloping hips he grips with desire, it’s her lithe, defined waistline. It’s not my bouncy chestnut hair he runs his hands through, but her long blonde tresses.

I feel sick.

I’m also conscious of my spiralling thoughts, that I’m leaping to conclusions, and that I have only seen one photo. So I begin trailing through all his recent photographs. Without being his friend, I’m limited to very few, and I’ve seen most of them yesterday with Sukhi, so I do what I have to do.

I find a photograph of some random woman on Twitter and set it as my profile photo. She’s not pretty, but not ugly either. Unmemorable. I then begin adding random people from London as friends, to try and make my profile look legit. I fill in the ‘About Me’ section with rubbish and write a few generic statuses so my page is full within half an hour. According to my bio, I’m a vegan caffeine addict who works in accounting and runs half marathons. Noah has a soft spot for animals and loves to run, so I’m hoping it will pique his interest enough to accept.

Then I take a deep breath and send my fiancé a friend request.

I know that it’s unlikely he’ll reply, so I force myself away from my laptop and, after checking my phone for the thousandth time for any call or text from him, I have another glass of water and wait for my friend request to be accepted.