Isla
Isla
Isla walked out of the clinic, raised a hand to her eyes to shield them from the flare of the sun. Her legs felt unstable, as though the muscles in her thighs had become slack, like the limbs of a newborn foal. She told herself it was all in her mind, that there was no physiological reason for her to feel so unsteady, that the doctor said the procedure had gone well: ‘You may feel a bit sore and tender for a few days, and you can expect some bleeding for a couple of weeks. If you’re worried at any time, just give the reception team a call. But I’m not expecting any complications . ’
Logically, Isla knew it was a routine procedure, that thousands of women had it every day, that it was unlikely there’d be any medical repercussions. Rationally she knew she was privileged to have access to it, that millions of women around the world weren’t so lucky. She knew she was fortunate Andrew had paid for her to go to a private clinic where her room had resembled an upmarket hotel. And yet, she felt overwhelmed by a feeling of vulnerability, of precariousness, as though her sense of equilibrium were balanced on a knife edge, threatening to tip over.
Pulling out her phone, she opened WhatsApp, tapped out a message to Andrew.
I’m all done. x
Watching the two grey ticks turn blue, she experienced a stab of guilt for the lie she had told her mum this morning; that she was heading to the Hunterian Museum, somewhere she’d been meaning to go for ages but never had an opportunity to visit during term time. There had been no hint of disbelief from her mum because Isla never usually lied. She’d never had cause to before her relationship with Andrew, but now her deceptions flooded her with guilt. More than anything, she wished her mum could be with her right now: to comfort her, console her, reassure her she was going to be okay. But Isla knew it was impossible. To open that can of worms was unimaginable.
Her phone pinged with a reply from Andrew.
Hope you’re okay. Just on a work call. I’ll get a car ordered for you and send you the details. I’ll call as soon as I’m done. x
Isla read the message, overcome by a sense of abandonment: the need for someone to be there, to look after her. Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them away, experienced a sense of pre-emptive humiliation should she begin to weep on a Marylebone street at half past four in the afternoon.
On the road in front of her, a car sped through the traffic lights, sounding its horn furiously. Isla tensed, her whole body on high alert: taut, anxious, agitated. Looking down at her phone, she willed the booking to arrive, felt inexplicably self-conscious as though every person walking past her – every man in a suit talking loudly through Bluetooth headphones, every woman in a flowery dress, every mother pushing a buggy – knew exactly where she had been and what she had done.
A message came through on her phone and she swiped it open, found a screenshot of a booking from the executive car hire company Andrew always used, along with a message.
Car should be with you in about 5 mins – I’ve had it on standby for the past hour. Booking details above. I’m really sorry I can’t get out of work – just one of those weeks. But I’ll call later, just as soon as I wrap up here. x
Closing WhatsApp, Isla glanced up and down the street, hoping the black Mercedes – they were always black Mercedes – would arrive soon. The sun glared at her, swathing her in heat, sweat trickling down her spine into the small of her back. Glancing around, she stepped into the respite of a shaded doorway.
Even now, she couldn’t decide whether she wished Andrew had accompanied her to the clinic. At least, if he had, she would be on her way home now. But he had apologised profusely, said work was frantic, explained that he couldn’t possibly get away for an entire afternoon. ‘It’s probably too much of a risk anyway, don’t you think? If anyone happened to see me going in there with you, that would be disastrous.’
A black sedan pulled up at the kerb and Isla checked the licence plate against the booking on her phone, walked towards it, tapped on the window. Stepping into the back of the air-conditioned car, she sank into its leather seats, was grateful that these drivers never expected conversation.
A sudden, grinding pain clawed at her and she placed a hand reflexively across her stomach. Looking at the time on the dashboard, she realised it was another forty-five minutes until she could take the next dose of painkillers. She wished she were at home already, under the duvet, curtains drawn. She’d already planned the excuse she would use with her mum: that she must have picked up a tummy bug, that she hoped it was nothing a day or two’s rest wouldn’t remedy. Her swim coach would be unhappy she’d be missing training but there was nothing Isla could do about that.
Opening her Gmail, she felt a stab of apprehension as she saw the now familiar anonymous address at the top of her inbox, the subject line empty, as always. A part of her brain told her to delete it without opening it, to block the sender, to prevent any more hateful messages reaching her. But she couldn’t. She didn’t dare. Because she feared the repercussions if she ignored them, feared she might provoke them even more with her silence.
She held her breath as she read the few short lines.
You know he’s only doing it because you offered it to him on a plate. You’re literally nothing more than somewhere for him to put his dick. Slut.
Isla glanced up at the driver as though perhaps he knew what she was being accused of. But his face was impassive, eyes forward, and she looked back down at her phone, tapped out a reply, acid rising up through her chest and into her throat.
Please just keep it to yourself. We didn’t mean for it to happen. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.
Her finger hovered over the send button, remembering all the internet safety talks they’d had at school over the years.
Don’t engage with trolls.
Never respond to abusive messages.
Always report any unwanted, malicious or harmful communications.
Ignoring the advice in her head, she sent the message, imagined it landing in her stalker’s inbox, couldn’t help but speculate how they might react, what they might do next. The single most important thing for Isla right now was ensuring that, whoever the sender was, they weren’t incited to make her secret public.
Filing the email into her ‘WSE’ folder – Weird Stalker Emails – she hoped it was labelled blandly enough that should anyone ever get hold of her phone they would be unlikely to find it. She wasn’t sure why she was keeping the messages; only that she could not bring herself to delete them.
Slipping off her trainers, Isla brought her knees to her chest, tried to thwart the pain grinding deep in her pelvis. The satnav on the dashboard indicated it was almost an hour’s journey home, and Isla silently cursed herself for having forgotten her headphones, for not being able to shut out the world for the next sixty minutes. In truth, she’d hoped Andrew might surprise her, might have been waiting outside the clinic when she emerged. It was a hope she had not allowed herself to acknowledge until now.
A fierce, grating pain made her hug her knees tighter to her body as though she could squeeze the discomfort out of her. She became aware suddenly of a yearning for her dad, for him to be beside her in the back of the car, for her to be able to rest her head against his shoulder. To feel the safety of his embrace and know that whatever mess she was in, he would help get her out of it.
Except she knew that if he were alive, he would not be in the car with her. Because she would have been mortified to tell him she had got herself into this situation. Ashamed of the way she had let him and her mum down. Ashamed that she was not the person they believed her to be.
Leaning her head against the window and closing her eyes, she willed the minutes to pass quickly by until she would be at home, in bed, alone.
‘How are you feeling?’
Isla looked at Andrew, sitting opposite her in an Italian restaurant, far enough from home that their chances of being spotted were negligible. ‘Okay, I think.’
‘You sure? I know what a difficult thing it must be to go through and I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you on Tuesday. You definitely feel well enough to be here? We can rearrange for another evening if you’d rather, and I can drop you near home.’
Isla shook her head. ‘Honestly, I’m okay.’ She wasn’t sure why she didn’t want to tell Andrew about the stomach cramps she’d experienced for the past two nights, or the heavy bleeding that had required a change of sanitary towel every two hours. She didn’t want to tell him about the uncontrollable fits of crying or the debilitating sense of fatigue. She didn’t want him to know about the guilt she felt when she’d lied to her mum about a phantom tummy bug, lied again as she left the house to meet Andrew, reassuring her that she was feeling better, that she was going to Kit’s for the evening, that she wouldn’t be home too late, the lies tripping shamefully from her tongue.
‘So the clinic was okay? They looked after you well?’ Andrew took a sip of negroni.
‘It was fine. They were nice.’ The response emerged as if on autopilot and she wished she didn’t feel so awkward, so ill at ease in Andrew’s company. It was as though they were both on their best behaviour, like strangers on a first date.
‘That’s good. I know it must have been awful, but at least you were well looked after. That’s the main thing.’
There was a strange note in Andrew’s voice, and it dawned on Isla that perhaps he wanted to be thanked for finding a good clinic, booking her in, paying whatever the exorbitant fee might have been. For ensuring she would be well looked after by a group of strangers when he wouldn’t be there to look after her himself.
Isla pretended to study the menu, told herself to stop being ridiculous. It was sleep deprivation and hormones making her think such stupid thoughts. When she considered it logically, rationally, she understood it just wasn’t feasible – just wasn’t practicable – for Andrew to have accompanied her on Tuesday. The risks would have been too great.
‘What do you fancy to eat?’
Isla continued to study the menu. ‘I’m not sure. I’m not that hungry.’
‘You usually love scallops. Or sea bass? There are some specials on the board, if you fancy something different. The tuna carpaccio sounds good.’ Andrew was waffling as though he, too, was unsure about this new sphere within which they were operating.
The waiter arrived at their table, asked if they were ready to order. Eyes scanning the menu, Isla chose a salad, listened as Andrew ordered a rump steak – medium rare – with a side order of broccoli and a glass of Barolo.
As the waiter left, an uncomfortable silence descended. Isla tried to think of something to say, found that her mind was blank.
‘I really am sorry that you had to go through that on Tuesday. It must have been awful. I feel dreadful about it.’
Isla shook her head. ‘It wasn’t your fault—’
‘But it was, in a way. If I hadn’t fallen for you, if we hadn’t begun this relationship, you’d never have been in that situation.’
Thoughts felt fuzzy in Isla’s head, and she could not fashion a response.
‘It’s made me realise how selfish I’ve been. How selfish I’m being. You’re young, you’re beautiful, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You should be spending time with your friends, having fun, going to parties. Not in a relationship with an old man like me.’ Andrew forced a laugh that sounded like the low growl of a car engine.
His words felt blurry to Isla, like landmarks viewed through the window of a high-speed train. ‘But I want to be in a relationship with you. It’s not selfish if it’s what I want too.’
Andrew ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I just think you deserve to be a normal young woman, doing all the things normal seventeen-year-old girls do.’
‘What does that mean?’ Isla’s breath felt shallow suddenly. Andrew never usually referred to her age. It was a tacit agreement between them not to, to ignore the fact of their sizeable age difference. As he’d said at the outset of their relationship, age was irrelevant when two people felt about each other the way they did.
Andrew studied her face, sighing deeply as though the weight of the world were on his shoulders. ‘I think the events of the past couple of weeks have made me realise how unfair our relationship has been on you—’
‘Unfair in what way?’
He took hold of her hand. ‘Isla, you know how much I care about you. The last four months have been incredible. I’ve loved our time together. But what’s happened... It’s been a real wake-up call for me that it’s just not fair on you. You should be dating boys your own age. You should be out having fun.’
Isla pulled her hand free, wiped her palm on the thick cotton napkin. Andrew’s words swam in her head. A part of her needed him to say it out loud, to have the courage to articulate it. Not to hide behind euphemisms and platitudes and cowardly attempts to pretend he was doing this for her. ‘Are you breaking up with me?’
The muscles in Andrew’s throat rose and fell as he swallowed, as if he were weighing up his words until he had the right measure. ‘It pains me to say it, but I honestly think it’s for the best. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.’
Incredulity made Isla falter for a moment. ‘For the best? How is it best for me if you break up with me?’
Andrew glanced sideways to where another couple at a neighbouring table were glancing surreptitiously in their direction. She watched as he smiled apologetically, as though perhaps Isla were a stroppy teen, he the personification of paternal forbearance.
Pushing back her chair – hearing it scrape defiantly across the wooden floor – Isla grabbed her bag, ran out of the restaurant, into the street. She couldn’t believe he was doing this. Not now. Not today . She’d thought he’d brought her to a restaurant because he wouldn’t be so crass as to take her to a hotel room two days after she’d aborted their baby. But now she realised he had a different motivation entirely: to ensure they were in a public place when he dumped her. Somewhere she was less likely to cause a scene.
‘Isla! Come back.’
She ignored Andrew’s voice behind her, delayed no doubt by him thrusting cash at the waiter to pay for dinner and drinks that would now not be consumed. She continued along the busy London street, where office workers spilled out of pubs enjoying the warm August evening. Turning into a quiet side road that was a shortcut to the station, pain clenched her stomach, a cruel reminder of all that had happened over the past forty-eight hours.
A hand grabbed her arm, and she spun around, shook it off. ‘Don’t touch me!’
Frustration furrowed Andrew’s forehead. ‘Isla, please. It doesn’t need to be like this. I’m only doing what I think is best for you.’
‘Don’t give me that. You can’t do this. You can’t dump me two days after I’ve had an abortion. Who does that?’ Isla was aware of her voice beginning to crack and she swallowed hard against it.
‘There’d never be a good time for a conversation like this, you know that. I just think we have to be sensible. You’ve already been through a horrible experience because of our relationship. There are just too many people who are going to get hurt if we carry on—’
‘People are going to get hurt? That didn’t seem to bother you when you were taking me to hotel rooms every Thursday. You didn’t seem too concerned about hurting people when you were messaging me every five minutes telling me you loved me and that you couldn’t wait to see me. Where was your conscience then?’
Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose between fingers and thumb, a pained expression on his face as though he were the one in emotional distress. ‘I know this is a horrible conversation to have and I’m truly sorry we’re having it. But we both need to take responsibility for what’s gone on between us. It’s not like either of us planned for this to happen—’
‘Really? So all those times you just happened to be driving near my school or my swimming club ready to give me a lift – those were just coincidences, were they? All that rubbish about wanting to train as a swimming coach – that was all true, was it? Don’t lie, Andrew. You pursued me.’
Andrew frowned, shook his head. ‘That’s not how it was, and you know it. I understand you’re upset but let’s not rewrite history. I didn’t pursue you. We had a connection, there was something special between us. That’s the truth, so please don’t start twisting things now.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You must have known, deep down, that it couldn’t go on forever.’
Humiliation blazed in Isla’s cheeks. ‘You told me you weren’t in love with Nicole any more. You said your relationship had been over for a long time, that you were only together for the sake of Nathaniel and Jack. So don’t you rewrite history. You’re the one twisting the truth.’ Isla glared at him, willing the tears to be kept at bay.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, thoughts reeling in Isla’s head, confirming to herself the narrative of the past few months, determined not to let Andrew convince her of an alternative reality.
‘Isla, you’re seventeen. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Trust me – in a few months, our relationship will seem like a distant memory. I really don’t want us to part on bad terms.’
Isla stared at him, unable to believe this was the same man with whom she had fallen in love. ‘Don’t patronise me. You break up with me forty-eight hours after I’ve aborted our baby and you don’t want to part on bad terms? What did you think was going to happen? I’d just trot back nicely like the good little girl I’m supposed to be and pretend nothing ever happened?’
‘Of course not, I didn’t mean that—’
‘What if I tell Nicole?’ The words blurted from Isla’s lips before she knew she was going to say them.
‘What?’
‘What if I tell Nicole what’s been going on? Why should you be allowed to walk away without any consequences?’
Isla watched the colour drain from Andrew’s face. Emboldened by the switch in the dynamics of power, she continued. ‘If you’re so wracked with guilt about what you’ve done, maybe I should tell Nicole, get it all out in the open.’
Andrew focused his eyes on her, unblinking. ‘I don’t think you want to do that.’
‘Why not?’
He held her gaze, eyes narrowing at the edges. ‘What will your mum think? What’s her reaction going to be if she finds out you’ve been sleeping with me? Or that you’ve had an abortion without even telling her you were pregnant? How do you think she’ll feel about that?’
Isla couldn’t speak, bewildered as to how her feelings could switch from love to resentment in the space of a single conversation.
Andrew sighed, softened his voice. ‘Come on, we both know it’s in neither of our interests that this ever gets out. And I don’t think either of us really wants this to end on such a bad note.’ He reached out, placed a hand on her arm. ‘Let’s try to be grown-up about this.’
His condescending tone made her seethe. ‘I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’d do this to me.’
Andrew’s grip tightened on her arm. ‘Isla, promise me you’re not going to talk to Nicole.’
Isla pulled her arm free from his grasp, felt the imprint of his fingers stinging her flesh. ‘I don’t have to promise you anything. I owe you nothing .’ Turning around, she ran towards the busy street, heard him call behind her.
‘I mean it, Isla. Do not say anything. You’ll regret it if you do.’