Chapter Two #2
And no amount of morphine could dull the pain of losing both Dulcie and Edo.
It had been the one time in his life that he’d been grateful for his family’s telenovela tendencies. Grateful for anything that would distract him from that ache inside.
‘They don’t know the full story.’ She glowered at him.
That old chestnut, he thought, and he felt a stab of frustration. How many times had his brother or his father or his cousins trotted out that line when the consequences of their antics had needed to be quietly and discreetly swept under a particularly large and forgiving carpet?
It might not be the full story but, in his experience, there was no smoke without fire.
Besides, he had met her brother. He was a definite firestarter, he thought, picturing Oscar’s glazed eyes and curling lip when they had found him waiting on the doorstep of Dulcie’s flat.
‘Of course, I wouldn’t have had to go to your workplace if you hadn’t changed your name,’ he said softly.
Her chin jerked up, blue eyes wide like a Siamese cat.
But why Shaw?
There was no obvious explanation. Nor was it of any concern to him. And yet it needled him. That she should prefer any name to his.
And solitude to his company, he thought a moment later as she darted sideways and, this time, she made it past him and he found himself in the incredible position of having to pursue her down the street, without actually looking as if he was pursuing her because the last thing he needed was to make a scene.
‘You can’t keep running away from this, Dulcie.’ He was walking beside her just as he used to do whenever they went out together. Only then they used to hold hands and now her hands were curled into tight fists. ‘More importantly, there’s no point. I know where you live.’
‘So, you’re a stalker now. And you wonder why I don’t want to accept your tempting offer of marriage?’
‘I’m not offering to marry you. We’re still married.’
‘Barely,’ she snapped. ‘And not for much longer. The sooner we get divorced, the better.’
‘There was nothing stopping you from filing for divorce when you ended our marriage.’
‘I didn’t end our marriage.’ She stopped so abruptly and he was walking so fast that he was several feet ahead of her before he realised that she had stopped and he was forced to stride back to her. ‘You did. You made me choose.’
Her blue eyes were narrowed now, reminding him even more of an angry feline.
‘And you chose your brother.’
She squared up to him, her ponytail flicking provocatively from side to side in a way that made him want to reach out and grab it and wrap it around his hand and tether her to him, and he had a sudden, dangerous urge to step closer, and keep stepping closer.
‘Because you made it a choice. And now you’re trying to force me to make another choice.’
Now she was walking again, and he was having to lengthen his stride to catch up with her.
‘I’m merely asking you to do something you did two years ago of your own volition. You are my wife.’
She stopped next to a bike, chained to some railings.
‘I haven’t been your wife since you walked out of my flat in London, two years ago, Ettore.
And according to our vows, I never was. I mean, you didn’t exactly follow through on for better or worse, did you?
You met my brother, and you judged him, and you found him wanting.
And you expected me to validate your judgement. And that was why our marriage ended.’
Not true, he thought furiously. But the past, their past, was history. The real-time equivalent of a closed book. What mattered was the present and the immediate future. And the narrative arc that required him to be married.
‘Because you cared about your brother more than our marriage. And yet, when it comes to it, when you have an opportunity to make his life better, you won’t take it. I can make his life better. Yours too.’
He watched as she crouched down to unlock the padlock. ‘My life is fine. More importantly, it’s here. What possible reason would I have to give it all up for you?’
It was tempting to point out that moments earlier she had refused to listen to his reason for doing so.
Instead, he said, calmly, ‘If you agree to my proposal, you’ll need to give up your jobs so naturally I will recompense you.
And I will be generous, enough for you to get Oscar real, professional help. ’
Her chin snapped up. ‘You’re going to pay me? To be your wife.’
He could feel her shock, greater even than when he had suggested that they stay married. And he could feel her retreating inside herself, to that place that he had never managed to access. Because that was where Dulcie had failed their marriage vows.
She might have promised ‘to have and to hold’ but for him that had meant fully and completely accepting him, committing to him, recognising his needs and being present for him, and that had been true sexually, but emotionally she had always kept a part of herself out of reach.
Now though, it felt as though she had raised the drawbridge and closed the portcullis.
‘That’s very “generous” of you, Ettore. But as being your wife would mean having to spend time with you, I’d rather scrub toilets for the rest of my life.
Don’t come looking for me again. Now you know where I live, you can just send me the divorce papers.
Ciao, Ettore.’ She mounted the bike and before he could reply she was pedalling furiously away from him, her blonde ponytail streaming behind her as she bumped over the cobblestones and out of his life for the second time.
But this time, he was not letting her go.
Later, Dulcie would wonder how she had got home. She had no memory of stopping at any traffic lights or turning left or right. The last memory she had was of twisting the dials on her padlock with trembling fingers.
And Ettore’s beautiful, so familiar face, not soft with love, but dark with frustration as she cycled away.
Unlocking her front door, she bumped her bike’s wheel over the threshold and into the hallway. Her heart was racing, not from the speed at which she had pedalled. It was the shock of seeing Ettore again. And of his offer—suggestion, proposal? Whatever it was—to stay as his wife. For money.
Her head swam and she leaned back against the wall, breathing in the cool, still air of the tiny house she had bought eighteen months ago.
She and Oscar had repainted it with various calming shades of green and pulled up the horrific carpets.
Now there were varnished floorboards and rugs, and a sofa dotted with cushions.
She had wanted it to be a home for Oscar. But the truth was, she had no idea how to make a home.
When she was a child, her family’s house was large and full of material possessions, but it also quivered with a claustrophobic tension, a kind of permanent sense of impending doom.
After her parents’ divorce, she lived in a bigger house filled with even more material possessions.
But her father was critical and controlling.
He paid for everything, but he wanted results, and he didn’t tolerate flaws or weaknesses or defiance.
As she remembered their last conversation, her breathing stumbled.
Her father was no role model, any more than her mother had been.
But maybe she was doing something right because Oscar had been doing so much better lately.
He was doing exercise and even volunteering for two hours every day.
A sense of purpose was part of the programme that she and Oscar had agreed with his counsellor.
That and a curfew. Which he hadn’t missed for over two months now.
She was so proud of him. Of both of them. They were a family with their own unique name. They didn’t need anyone else. Although it was an undeniable bonus that Oscar liked their neighbours, Chris and Kelly.
She needed to focus on that, on Oscar, and forget Ettore’s ridiculous, incomprehensible proposal.
Ridiculous because they had managed only six weeks of married life the last time, and incomprehensible because she hadn’t given him a chance to explain his reasons for wanting to stay married.
Because he had offered her money.
‘If you agree to my proposal, you’ll need to give up your jobs so naturally I will recompense you.’ With an effort, she blanked out the memory of Ettore’s voice.
Focus, she told herself firmly.
Oscar would be leaving work any time now and regular meals were another part of his recovery.
Twenty minutes later, Dulcie was cooking in the kitchen when she heard the soft thump of the front door closing. Glancing at the clock on the oven, she smiled. Oscar was early.
‘I’m in the kitchen,’ she called out. ‘We’re having your favourite. I even added cream to the mashed potatoes.’
‘That’s great.’
Her scalp froze and the contents of her stomach solidified into a hard, unyielding lump.
She turned slowly away from the saucepan on the hob.
But she didn’t need to. She recognised that note.
Over the last three years, she had grown attuned to every tiny shift in her brother’s speech and behaviour patterns.
Someone else might not even have noticed the slight slur that he was trying to conceal in his voice. But she could hear it, and she knew what it meant.
Carefully, she put the masher in her hand down on the counter. ‘What did you take?’
He blinked, doing confusion, but his pupils were like pinpricks, the blue of the irises huge and glassy. ‘I don’t—’
‘Yes, you do, Oscar. We’ve been here before, remember?’ How could either of them forget? The first few times it had happened she had comforted herself by thinking, It’s only the second time. Or the fifth or tenth. Then she’d stopped counting.
‘Because you can’t forget. Because you think I’m a failure.’ He was all fast breath and twitching limbs now; a puppet being pulled in multiple directions by the cocktail of drinks and drugs he’d taken. ‘You think I’m like Mum. That’s why you left me—’
And so it went on, following a predictable and exhausting pattern.
The first stage was denial, quickly followed by a savage and disbelieving anger at her lack of faith and her utterly predictable but unjustified refusal to believe in him, which segued into a tearful critique of her character.
En route, all the cutlery and plates she’d laid out for dinner were swept violently onto the floor and he threw the vintage cine camera she’d given him for his birthday across the room.
As the sausages started to burn, the smoke alarms broke into an insistent, ear-splitting screech and Oscar covered his ears and crouched on the ground, crying incoherently.
Five hours later, she had thrown away the charred sausages and congealed mashed potato and swept up the broken glass and plastic and china. Oscar was curled up foetus-style on the sofa, his fist pressed against his mouth, moaning occasionally as his breath deepened into sleep.
Dulcie watched him from the armchair, clutching a cushion.
She hadn’t gone to bed. There was no point because she knew she wouldn’t and shouldn’t sleep deeply.
Instead, she ate some crackers and drank a glass of water.
She was exhausted but also on high alert.
With an effort of willpower, she forced herself to count the plus points.
He had come home to her.
He hadn’t stormed off.
And he didn’t need to go to A & E.
As plus points went, it was a pretty sad list, she thought, trying to swallow past the lump in her throat. She felt old, like really old. Her body ached with sadness and shame.
It wasn’t enough. She wasn’t enough to save him.
Three years ago, when she had found him in a seedy flat near Brixton prison, she had hoped that she would be. That she might be able to transfer all the benefits that she’d been gifted by the life she had chosen at the age of seven. The life she had denied her brother.
But Oscar’s problems were so deep rooted. He’d had two decades of chaos and poverty and neglect. And a decade of addiction.
‘I know he’s struggling and that you’re supporting him. But can you give him the help he needs? Because I can.’
Ettore’s words were so loud inside her head that she almost jumped out of her skin, and she had to hug the cushion tightly to steady herself.
The trouble was, much as she wanted to deny it, Ettore was right. Even with her support, Oscar’s grip on reality was loose-fingered at the best of times. What he needed was long-term, residential rehabilitation. But that was big money. More money than she earned.
Only what would happen if she did nothing? If she just kept trying to stitch therapy and rehab together into a haphazard quilt as she’d been doing for months now? Years, she corrected herself.
What if he got worse? What if he did what their mother did?
She had waited long enough. She wasn’t going to lose Oscar because of her pride. He needed proper care, and she would do anything to make sure he got it.
Even if it meant living under the same roof as her estranged husband.