Chapter 52
I throw my clothes in first, then I grab the snow globe Es gave me, wrap it in two jumpers and put that in next.
I take off Oscar’s necklace and leave it on the writing desk.
But as I put it down, there’s something pulsing through me, something that burns: it’s agony and ecstasy and love and hate and yearning and bitterness and hope and despair, all mixed up together.
Like razorblades and candyfloss. And I want it to stop, but I can’t.
All I can do is clench my jaw to stop the tears.
Why would I ever have wanted to feel all this?
Love is . . . balls.
I rush through to the bathroom and grab my toiletries.
As I check I haven’t left anything behind I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I wash my face, cleaning off the make-up I put on for Oscar, then dry it with a hand towel.
And that’s when my gaze moves down and I realise I’m still wearing the dress.
But screw it, I’ll post it to him. Because I will not stay here one moment longer.
I rush back to my suitcase, gathering belongings on my way, and throw everything haphazardly inside. Then I close it up and frantically pull at the zipper. It gets stuck on some fabric, so I pull it back, pack it tighter, and try again. This time it closes . . .
I grab my phone and the charger, and even though it’s only got seven per cent, I drop them into my handbag, sling it over my shoulder and grab my suitcase. And that’s when my door opens.
I look up, expecting it to be Rupert or Mrs Parker, checking on me.
But it’s not.
It’s Oscar.
A dizziness comes over me as I take him in. That static starts up in my head again, like his very being disrupts my circuitry. I can barely breathe.
‘What are you doing?’ Oscar asks, frowning, his eyes moving to the suitcase then back to me.
‘I’m leaving,’ I say, my voice steady.
‘You can leave tomorrow, we’ve already discussed this.’
‘I’m leaving now, Oscar,’ I say. Because he doesn’t get to tell me what to do anymore. I’m not his toy.
He looks at me, clenches his jaw and looks down at my suitcase again.
I go to pick it up, to carry it, but I’m too weak right now, so instead I roll it towards him.
There’s a part of me that thinks he’s going to stop me, that wants him to, but he doesn’t.
He simply moves aside so I can go out into the hall, and it feels like he’s tearing my heart apart.
Then he reaches for my suitcase, to help me carry it down the stairs, and as he does, our fingertips touch. I look up, our eyes meet, and something moves between us, something wild and electric. My head gets light, my breath uneven.
He pauses for a moment, and his lips part like he’s about to tell me not to go.
And then he says: ‘Fuck it.’
He reaches his hands into my hair and pulls me close. I can feel his breath on my lips, and as we kiss, all the noise, the static, the questions, the confusion, it all fades to silence. He tastes like champagne and cigarettes. He walks me back inside, closes the door behind us. Our eyes meet.
‘I . . .’ I start. Because I should go. But it’s like there’s something inside me, pulling me towards him, and before I know what I’m doing, it’s me leaning in, me kissing him again, and now my hands are in his hair as he walks me back towards the bed.
The world spins around us and my breath is so quick.
What the hell am I doing? He reaches around to the back of my dress, I feel him tugging at the laces, trying to untie it . . .
‘I forgot how annoying these were.’ He laughs, then he gives up and rips it open and it falls to the ground.
The air is cool on my skin and as he looks into my eyes, a rush moves through me, a rush greater than any blood I’ve ever drunk.
It’s like terror and yearning all mingled together.
But even so, I reach up for the top button of his shirt, and as I undo it, he smiles.
And there it is, that look, that softness, that part of him I recognise—I really do recognise him.
I remember this love. I undo the next button too.
Then he quickly does the rest and takes it off and then reaches for the edges of my underwear.
I can feel my heartbeat everywhere as he pulls them down to my ankles and I step out of them.
Then I sit down on the bed and watch as he takes off the rest of his clothes.
He takes a step towards me, my breath gets quick, then he slowly lies down on top of me.
I reach my hand into his hair, searching his eyes for answers to questions I haven’t asked.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he whispers, his mouth so close to mine that I can feel his breath on my lips. And yes I want to do this. I’m dizzy I want him so much.
‘Yes,’ I gasp.
He leans forward and kisses me again, gentler this time, but his stubble is rough against my mouth.
I wrap my legs around his waist. He pulls back just a little, his eyes lock on to mine.
A jolt moves through me, it hits me square in the chest, and I can tell he feels it too—his pupils flare.
And it feels like I am a part of him, like I am his and he is mine and .
. . and if this is why people fall into the darkness, I understand it.
Something cracks behind his eyes.
I can see it the moment it happens. It’s like a door slamming closed. His whole face hardens.
What’s happening?
I reach for his cheek, his stubble, I want to open the door again.
But he’s frowning now . . . he looks away. Down. He stands up, steps backwards, his breath quick. Then he looks up, and his face is serious, his eyes and jaw set. He whispers, ‘We can’t do this. Sorry. Fuck.’
Then he turns away from me, pulls his hands through his hair, then dresses.
All I can do is reach for my dress to cover me and watch him.
Then his shoes are on and he’s walking right back out that door.
Just before he leaves, he looks back, and says, ‘I’ll see you downstairs.
’ Then he does what he does best: he walks away.
And a final part of me, a part I didn’t know was still there, breaks.