Chapter Nine
Sharon
Don’t Wanna Lose You by Gloria Estefan
It was almost a normal week, I think as I stand on the crowded Tube and make my way home during Friday’s rush hour.
In fact, it was almost a good week.
Danny worked his shifts. I went to the office, working out my notice period.
We spent our evenings together, me cooking and Danny being unforgiving with the radio should a station not play a song he liked.
We drank wine together. We watched television until the news came on and then we switched it off and picked up a pack of cards.
Danny checked in with me once a day if I wanted to talk about it – about my grandmother’s death and the shiva that was happening without me – and I declined with a smile.
I checked in with him every day and asked how he was feeling and his smile was even bigger when he told me, “Fine, darling. Good as new.” More than once he joked that I should book a trip around the world so I can spend my money and time off more wisely than looking after him because he clearly doesn’t need looking after.
But then I caught him coming out of the bathroom this morning, a towel wrapped around his waist, and it quickly wiped away anything and everything good.
At first I thought they were bruises. That maybe Danny had fallen over at work or after drinking too much at the weekend, but then they came into sharper focus. They were too dark and too scattered and too red-tinged, like overgrown moles painting his olive skin.
By the time I realised what they were, Danny had ducked into his bedroom and firmly closed the door, leaving me standing on the landing with my mouth hanging open.
I had a meeting at nine o’clock so I couldn’t wait around and so I forced myself to jump into the bathroom so I wouldn’t be late. I wasn’t surprised when I discovered he’d already left for work by the time I came out.
He can try and avoid me all he wants but I won’t let him. I won’t let him ignore what is happening.
I take that resolve with me as I get off the Tube at Shepherd’s Bush and march down Goldhawk Road to our flat.
I’m filled with determination as I throw off my work clothes and pull on jogging bottoms, a white Bangles T-shirt and a men’s flannel shirt.
I’m a woman possessed as I go about tidying up our flat, cleaning the bathroom and our kitchen, before making Danny’s favourite meal, shepherd’s pie, but with lamb mince.
It’s only when the food is long cooked and the light outside has faded sufficiently that the streetlight immediately outside gives our front room a soft orange glow, that I realise Danny is probably not coming home tonight. At least not until much, much later.
Despite this, I still look up and down the street as I pull the curtains closed. Its emptiness makes my stomach sink, and I barely eat five mouthfuls of food because I’ve completely lost my appetite.
After boxing up the leftovers and storing them in the fridge, I take as long as I possibly can washing up and cleaning the kitchen. I keep the radio switched off so I can hear for the click of the door opening. I leave a glass next to the bottle of wine I opened, just in case he returns.
But he doesn’t. It’s gone ten o’clock when I finally stop moving around the room. Lying down on the sofa, I rest my head on a cushion and pull a blanket over me. I stare at the closed curtains and hope that every single slight shadow they reveal is Danny coming home.
But they aren’t.
And eventually, despite myself, I fall asleep.
*****
It’s still dark when a thump wakes me up. For a second, I don’t know where I am, but then I hear Danny’s voice, cursing.
I sit up and look around, not seeing him.
When I stand and walk to the room’s doorway I almost fall on top of him.
Crouched in a crumpled heap on the floor, he looks up at me with a boyish playfulness that almost wipes away all the anger I feel that he didn’t come home earlier.
That he didn’t stick around so we could talk about what we both know I saw.
But I can’t forget.
“You’re drunk,” I tell him.
He wags a finger at me. “Give the genius a Nobel Prize!”
“What time is it?” I ask as I push the button on the side of my Casio and the face lights up. 2:47. “Jesus, it’s late.”
“Two Nobel Prizes!” he slurs loudly. “For stating the obvious, with merit!”
“What are you doing on the floor?”
“Just having a little rest,” he says and folds his arms as if to prove just how relaxing it is with one leg squashed under him and the other bent awkwardly against the wall.
“Where were you?”
He frowns. “Where was I? Hmm… when exactly are you referring to, because I have been to a lot of places in my lifetime.”
“Tonight, Danny,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Ah… also a lot of places.”
“Just… forget it.” I sigh. It doesn’t matter. Danny is a grown man and all I can do is trust that he’s being responsible when it comes to others’ wellbeing. I’m actually more concerned with how responsible he’s being about his own health.
But I can’t talk about that now. He’s intoxicated. It’s the middle of the night. There’s no way we can have a serious conversation right now.
“Get up,” I say instead, leaning down to grab him under his arms. “I can’t believe you went out in your work clothes.”
Danny makes a half-scoffing, half-laughing sound. “I know. My standards are really slipping.”
“It’s amazing what you’ll do to avoid me.”
“I wasn’t…” He giggles as I finally get him on his feet. “Okay, yes, I was avoiding you.”
“Rude.”
“I know. The rudest.”
“You can’t avoid me forever,” I say as I lead him to his bedroom. “So just consider this a reprieve.”
I can actually physically feel him rolling his eyes in the darkness. “Lucky me.”
“Actually, yes.” I let him fall back on his bed, flick on the lamp on his bedside table and then reach for his feet, beginning to untie his shoes. “Lucky you. You have somebody who actually gives a shit about you.”
“Oh wow, yes, one person. My butch lesbian best friend who has made my health her life’s purpose because that’s easier for her than facing the cold hard truth that she’s still a virgin and is likely to stay that way unless she loosens the fuck up and lives a little.”
My hands freeze at the laces of his Adidas Gazelles. I look at him splayed on his bed, searching his features for something like remorse or regret, but he’s still got that silly drunk smile on his lips and his eyes are half-closed, pupils looking straight up at the ceiling.
I pull his shoe off roughly, and then the other one.
I let his feet fall to the floor and don’t bother to get a blanket to cover him.
I return to his room only to place a washing-up bowl on the floor by his bed and a glass of water on his bedside table.
He’s already snoring by the time I switch off the lamp and close the door.
*****
I sleep fitfully once I’m in my bed. Danny’s words bounce around my brain, as do the mental images of the lesions covering his chest. They aggressively do battle with each other to take up the most space in my mind until I can’t take it anymore and I get up at just after seven o’clock and make myself a cup of tea.
Not wanting silence in any shape or form, I put the radio on softly and dig out yesterday’s Evening Standard that I didn’t read fully on the Tube home.
After reading it front to back and doing the crossword, I make myself another tea and some toast with Marmite for breakfast. When I’m cleaning up afterwards, I realise I didn’t collect our post from the box in the hallway yesterday so I pad down the corridor and retrieve what’s there.
A jolt of excitement darts through my veins when I see ComMag, my favourite monthly magazine all about comic strips and books.
Knowing Danny isn’t going to emerge from his room for hours yet, I am pleased I’m going to have something to pass the time until he does.
Because I don’t care whether what he said last night is true. I’m not going to let him ignore what the lesions on his body clearly mean. Danny knows I’m stubborn, but he’s about to discover just how stubborn I really can be.
Settling on the sofa with my third cup of tea and my ComMag, I am about five pages in when I see the advert.
Meet AJ Ripley, creator of Lady Phantom, at Kapow Press Bookshop, Shaftesbury Avenue. Exclusive Author Meet & Greet Event with Q&A.
Limited Tickets Available!
I gawp at it for several long minutes, reading it over and over again.
The date is for next weekend, Saturday. My Casio tells me it’s just gone nine o’clock.
They must be open now, surely. Hopefully.
Nearly knocking over my cup of tea, I reach for the phone.
Tucking the receiver between my cheek and shoulder, I dial the number printed under the text and hold my breath until I start to hear ringing.
“Kapow Press, can I help you?” comes a sleepy, monotone answer.
“Hello! Hi! Hello!” I blurt out, ridiculously. “I just saw an advert, or announcement or something, I guess, for the event next weekend. With AJ Ripley. I want to buy some tickets. Please.”
I cringe at myself.
“Sorry, all sold out,” the deep voice says with a nonchalant sniff.
“What?” I feel winded.
“Yeah, all sold out. Long ago.”
Well, why are you advertising it in the current issue of ComMag then? I nearly snap at him but realise that would be less than helpful.
“Oh,” is what I opt for instead. Also very unhelpful.
“Okay, then—”
“Is there a waiting list?” I demand in a rush. “If people don’t want their tickets anymore. Can you add my name to that so I can buy some tickets if they become available?”
I catch the tail end of a definite groan before everything becomes muffled, but I can make out snippets of a hushed conversation.
Eventually, the voice returns. “Yeah, okay, I can take your name and number.”
“Oh, great,” I exhale heavily. “Thank you. That’s great. Fantastic. Brilliant.”
“Yeah.” The voice does not share my relief.