Chapter 40
Mallory
I am only reading it now.
Hi Mal,
I’ve tried to call you, but the number I have seems to be switched off. Perhaps I have an old one? I have heard from the publishing house – they got back to me very quickly which usually means one of two things.
Sadly, they didn’t like what you proposed for the ending.
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
Gina’s note was: ‘I am disappointed to say that M.M.’s proposed ending didn’t quite have the emotional pull we were looking for – and some of the authenticity fell away. It didn’t feel genuine to the journey Liam was on.’
Shit.
I’m sorry, Mal. I rather liked it myself!
However, all is not lost. Gina was going to withdraw her offer (which can happen, it’s not unusual!) but I have managed to convince her to give you another go. Are you able to do this? Would need it asap. By tomorrow.
I don’t want to lose this deal for you. You’ve worked so hard!
Dig deep. Think about how to really throw the reader an emotional spanner. You know these characters, Mal.
Stan
No kisses.
No double words.
No urgent, necessary or relevant.
Just disappointed.
The image of the Vizsla on the beach fractures, slipping away through the folds in my brain, like shards of glass.
I hear the door of the bedroom shut.
Where’s he been?
‘Mal? What are you doing in there? I had to use the other bathroom.’
He sounds annoyed. Suspicious. ‘Coming!’ I call, pushing the flush. I can’t have him hear my panic. I lean down and slide the laptop into the inch-tall gap beneath the cabinet and the floor.
I stand, wash my hands and exhale. Box breathing.
Regulate.
I can do this.
I can do this.
As I push open the en-suite door, the shaft of light spills out from behind me and illuminates Ronan lying in the bed under the covers, putting his phone on the bedside table.
‘Hey – sorry,’ I whisper. ‘Needed to pee. Too much tomato juice.’ I flick the light off behind me, making him disappear, tiptoe across the carpet, peel back the duvet and slide under it next to him. I lie still, feeling his presence, not looking at me, but probing.
Do I seem rattled?
Can he tell?
‘Today went well,’ I say quietly. An attempt to keep things light, to keep things fun.
But then I remember what happened at the office and backpedal.
‘With Mum, I mean. I know your day was hard. I’m really sorry about that, Ronan.
I’ve been thinking about what you said, and you’re right.
I need to do better at looking after myself. And I’m going to prove to you I can.’
He’s thinking. ‘Mmhmm.’ Is he still angry? ‘She looks old now, doesn’t she?’
‘Sorry?’
He continues facing the ceiling. ‘Your mum. She looks old. I actually worry she might be becoming a bit... Slow.’
‘Slow?’
‘She seems less sharp these days.’ She still seems sharp to me.
‘A little less switched on. When she showed us pictures of the house in Macclesfield... Jesus, I forgot how small it is. She’s done it up nicely, I’ll give her that.
You couldn’t swing a cat in it though, Jesus.
It’s a little embarrassing, don’t you think? Bless her.’
‘I think—’
‘She’s turning into a bit of a cliché. Mutton dressed as lamb.’ He makes a little chuckle that has the quality of an invitation, an invitation for me to join him. ‘You need to encourage her to buy some new clothes.’
I stare into the darkness above me. ‘Maybe I’ll take her shopping.’
‘Not this week.’
‘Well... No. Maybe next week.’
‘Let’s see,’ he says. Then, in the dark, I feel him move.
His hand on my arm. Gently this time. ‘Come here.’ He pulls me, drawing me across the sheets, into his body.
Before I protest, his arms are around me, engulfing me.
‘I’m here,’ he says. ‘I will always be here. If I seem frustrated, it’s only because I love you, Mal.
I want you to be OK. When you’re not seeing clearly, I know you understand that I know what’s best for you. ’
‘I’m OK, Ronan.’
‘I don’t want you ending up in hospital again. No one wants that.’
‘No.’
As he squeezes me into him, our skin clammy and sticking together, nausea swirls.
‘I love you so much. No one will love you the way I do. Do you know that? I would put everything on the line for you. I have.’ He exhales slowly so his breath tickles the side of my face.
I can smell the whiskey. ‘I don’t want you to end up like your mother.
’ His lips graze my neck. ‘Alone. Bored. Nothing to show for yourself.’
‘Ronan—’
‘I want to show you how much I love you,’ he whispers. ‘Will you let me?’
I instinctively shift away from him slightly. Not much. But it stops him. He shifts back. His hands let go. We unstick. He sits up, placing his arms onto his knees. ‘It’s been weeks, Mal.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I think increasing the medication has messed with my libido.’
‘Right.’ While he runs his hand across his face, I wait for it. I know what’s coming. ‘I checked the fertility app. You start ovulating tomorrow.’
There it is. ‘I don’t...’
I don’t want it.
I do not want it.
‘We should try,’ he says. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of reading, and I wonder if some other things might help.
The book says that women who are trying to conceive in the geriatric period should be as relaxed as possible.
I want to give you that. Maybe we could come up with a list of more things that would help? What do you think?’
I think the word geriatric is horrendous. ‘That sounds good.’
I see his eyes brighten through the dark. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I can think of one thing.’
It is an odd thing to recognise just before intercourse, but he looks like a child.
While I lie back, watching him thrust, his eyes shut, I wonder who he is thinking about. Who he is picturing.
I picture the German Vizsla. But the whole thing lasts much longer than the few seconds it takes for my imaginary Vizsla to run along the beach, because Ronan is drunk.
I always forget how vocal he can be. I want to tell him to try and say less, because he might wake my mother on the floor below.
But I also want him to think this is a relaxing experience.
So I decide to conjure up some more distractions.
I intend to picture nice things – the future – my future – but my mind betrays me.
With each thrust I seem to be lurched back in time.
Oh, yeah...’
To the tiny flat we rented in Stoke Newington after six months of dating.
Wal...’
Me, finishing Shallow Embers there, and reading it to him at night. His comments and notes.
The agent picking it up. Selling it in a week. The first British advance.
‘Oh, Mal...’
The American advance. Nearly falling over at the sight of it in my account. His face when I told him. His disbelief.
‘Oh, yeah—’
His jealousy.
‘Yeah...’
The marriage proposal that came not long after it. The marriage itself, three months later. The field. The wellies. The sun in his eyes.
‘Mal...’
The book sales. The royalties.
‘Mal...’
His jealousy.
Me. Excited. Thinking of new book ideas.
‘Oh—’
Him, telling me I could do better. That they weren’t good. That they were awful.
‘Oh—’
Telling me that the only reason Shallow Embers did so well must have been because of the notes he gave me. Jesus – I’m joking, Mal. Don’t be so sensitive.’ Him, starting the joint account. Me, putting my book money into it.
‘Oh, fucking hell—’
The pressure in my brain. We were married. It was fine. Him, bringing me the brochure for this house. Telling me he had put down a deposit. With my money. Me, agreeing it was a good idea. My brain hurting. The pressure.
‘Mal...’
Him, interning, while my book paid the mortgage. Me, feeling like I was losing my mind in the house. Him, saying I was lucky. Many women would kill to have what I have.
‘I love you...’
Me, saying I wanted to apply for a job in publishing. Him, telling me it would be too stressful for me. That I wouldn’t be able to hack it.
My mind, slipping.
‘Oh, yeah...’
More book ideas. Him, telling me they were juvenile – basic – that I would embarrass myself. Telling me that I would be a great mother, and should focus on that. ‘Imagine our babies, they will be beautiful.’ His promotions.
‘That’s it, baby...’
The snap in my mind.
Yeah – yeah – yeah.’
Snap. Snap. Snap.
‘That’s it—’
Me, telling him I didn’t want this life anymore. That I felt trapped. By him. That I wanted to write what I wanted to write. And I wanted to leave.
‘Oh, baby, I love you so much.’
Racing thoughts. Putting the money in the boat on the Gower. My money.
‘Oh, yeah—’
Him, saying I couldn’t be alone. That I needed him. Or I would ruin my life.
‘Oh, yeah—’
Me, believing him.
‘Oh, yeah—’
Him, questioning my sanity.
‘Uh, baby—’
Me, questioning my sanity.
‘Baby—’
My mind stalling.
‘Are you close?’
The psychiatric ward. The blinking light of the fire alarm on the ceiling.
‘Oh, Mal.’
The—
‘Ugh! Fuck, yeah!’ Oh. He’s finished. ‘Oh, my God. That was amazing.’ He falls off me.
‘Amazing,’ I repeat.
‘I love you,’ he says, pulling the duvet over him.
‘Love you too.’
I think of the Vizsla again, pulling the image of it running along the beach back into my consciousness. When Ronan is asleep, I get up and pull on my dressing gown.