Into the Darkest Corner (18 page)
When I got back upstairs I could hear voices before I even got into the flat. They’d left the door open, something that would normally send me into a tailspin, but after all this wasn’t my flat.
Stuart was standing in the kitchen. When I came up the hall toward him, having shut the door firmly behind me, he stopped talking, midsentence, and looked.
I rounded the corner and there, at last, was Alistair Hodge. “Ah, and you must be the glorious Cathy; I’ve been hearing all about you. How are you, my dear?”
“I’m very well, thank you. It’s nice to meet you.”
I shook his hand and accepted a glass of wine from him, immediately thinking that I would have to take things very easy.
“Come and sit with me, my dear, and let’s see if we can find some nice festive music to listen to.”
I cast a glance over my shoulder at Stuart as Alistair led me into the living area. He gave me a smile and a wink and went back to the meal.
Alistair was a well-built man, loosely put together, with prematurely graying hair rather like mine. He had a huge belly that strained the cotton shirt he was wearing and sat over the waistband of the brown corduroys. Despite his girth he seemed peculiarly light-footed, and was happy leaping up from the sofa to go and select some more CDs from Stuart’s collection when we’d looked through the first handful.
“Stuart, dear boy, you don’t have any carols.”
“See if there are any on TV,” Stuart called back.
“I must admit I don’t have any carols either,” I said.
“Oh, that’s such a shame. I don’t feel at all Christmassy if I haven’t any carols.” He flicked through the channels until he found some choirboys warbling away, their mouths angelic circles, their eyebrows somewhere up in their hairlines.
My cheeks were starting to feel flushed. I’d only had half a glass of wine.
“How’s the shoulder?” Alistair called.
“Better. On the mend.”
He leaned over me conspiratorially. “Did he tell you what happened?”
“Just that he got kicked in the shoulder by a patient.”
“Ah, you didn’t get the full story, then. I might have known. He’s a bit of a hero, our Dr. Richardson. He got himself between a patient who was getting aggressive, and a nurse. He wrestled the man to the floor—”
“He’s exaggerating,” Stuart said, suddenly appearing with the wine bottle and topping up our glasses.
“—and subdued him single-handedly until help arrived.”
I looked at Stuart.
“It’s not usually that bad,” he said. “Most of the patients I see are just too miserable to move. I don’t often get violent ones.”
Alistair raised his eyebrows. I looked from one of them to the other.
“Anyway, Al, that’s enough about work. I don’t think Cathy wants to hear all the horrible details, do you?”
“Did he tell you about his award?”
“No,” I said.
Stuart made a noise of disgust and went back to the kitchen.
“He’s been awarded the Wiley Prize for the research he’s done into treating depression in young people. He’s the first UK-based psychologist to get it. We’re
ever
so proud of him in the department. All right, all right. I’ll shut up about it now. I
knew
you wouldn’t have told her, though, Stuart, that’s why I had to say something.”
“Do you work together, on the same ward?” I asked.
“Oh, no, not anymore. I work at the Center for Anxiety Disorders and Trauma. I’m in a different building. Stuart does the depression and mood-disorder clinics, as well as working on the crisis ward. He started off with me though. Absolutely brilliant guy.”
“I can hear you,” Stuart said from the kitchen.
“I know you can, dear boy, that’s why I’m saying such nice things.”
Alistair went back to looking at the glorious interior of the chapel of King’s College, Cambridge, and I went to check if Stuart needed any help with the dinner.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Nope, it’s all under control.”
Eventually he put me in charge of laying the table, although it was a small table for two, never mind three. I opened another bottle of wine, since the first one seemed to be empty. Alistair had brought some crackers, so I put one on each of the place mats, then I went to sit with Alistair again.
Finally, when I was about fainting with hunger and the tempting smells had nearly got the better of me, Stuart said, “It’s ready.”
Dinner was amazing. Stuart had cooked a haunch of venison in a rich plum gravy, with vegetables and roast potatoes, roast parsnips and Yorkshire puddings. The meat was meltingly velvety-delicious. The wine we were drinking was making me feel warm, and more than a little drunk.
We pulled our crackers and laughed at the appalling jokes, we drank more wine and finally had our dessert at about six in the evening, by which time we were all completely stuffed full of food. Alistair had seconds of everything, eating and chewing while Stuart and I looked at each other and smiled as though we had some private joke.
I made Stuart sit on the sofa while Alistair and I did the dishes, although he didn’t stay there. A few minutes later he came and sat at the kitchen table and watched us, joining in the conversation while I told Alistair all about the happy world of pharmaceuticals and how I was busy recruiting warehouse staff for the new year. It all sounded hopelessly dull compared to the frightening world of mental health wards, but they still listened. Stuart carved some more of the venison and wrapped it into a tinfoil parcel for Alistair to take home.
When everything was tidied away I made a pot of tea. Outside it was dark and the rain had started, pattering noisily on the glass. It was a good night to be at home.
“That was a delicious lunch,” Alistair proclaimed, displaying his vast belly like a trophy and patting it indulgently.
“Good,” Stuart said. “Although it’s a bit past lunchtime.”
Alistair had plonked himself happily on the sofa between us. “I won’t stay long,” he said, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “I’m sure the two of you would much rather be on your own.”
I felt my cheeks flush and heard Stuart cough.
“We’re just friends,” I said quickly.
“Of course you are,” Alistair said, with a broad smile.
“What’s the bus service like today?” Stuart asked casually.
“Oh, a bit sporadic, to tell you the truth,” Alistair said. “Appalling really, I mean, people still have to get around, Christmas or no Christmas.”
“You going to be able to get home all right?”
“Hm? Oh, yes, I expect so.”
There was a long pause.
“I should think about getting back,” I said. I had a sudden horrible feeling that Stuart was trying to get rid of Alistair for some reason. Between us we’d consumed three and a half bottles of wine and the edges of the room wouldn’t stay still. What if he was planning to make some kind of move? I thought back to the night before, about sleeping on his sofa, wrapped in his duvet, wearing his clothes.
“What are you up to tomorrow, Al?” Stuart said, trying again.
“Oh, lord, I’ve got paperwork to catch up on. No rest for the wicked, eh?”
“Better not leave it too late, then.”
“Hm?” Alistair looked up at Stuart. “Oh! Of course, yes, I must really be going. Gosh, is that the time?” He got to his feet surprisingly quickly.
“I’d better be going, too,” I said.
“Well, my dear, I expect we shall see each other again very soon, hm?”
“Um—yes. I suppose so.”
“I’m very much looking forward to it.”
My cheeks burning, I found his coat and Stuart found his bag, and then Stuart said he would see him next week and they would meet up for a coffee to discuss something or other, and before we knew it Alistair had been shoved out of the door, and Stuart had gone downstairs to see him off. I stood in the kitchen hopping nervously from one foot to the other, trying not to fall over.
I listened to the echoing voices coming up from the hallway below:
“Lovely dinner, Stuart, really first class—thank you so much for inviting me . . .”
“Great to have you, honestly . . .”
“And,” his voice dropped but not enough for me to be spared what came next, “I see what you mean about Cathy—she’s a real treasure, isn’t she? What a corker. Much better than Hannah. You’ve done well there, matey. Good for you. Right, better brave the rain . . .”
Then the sound of the door, the bolt slotting home, and a moment later I heard him coming up the steps two at a time.
I stood there frozen, my heart thumping.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I feel a bit—I don’t know—a bit drunk, I guess.”
He was eyeing me doubtfully. “You look very pale all of a sudden. Come and sit down.”
“No,” I said, resisting. “I’m going home.”
“You’re sure? Stay for a bit.”
“No.”
“Cathy? what is it? I thought . . .”
“No!”
I made for the door, my feet slipping on the laminate floor in the hallway, pulling open the door. I made it down the stairs, holding on to the banister, fumbling for the key and forcing open the door, slamming it behind me, my heart thumping.
Hours later, the flat checked, exhausted, freshly showered and sitting curled up on the sofa, I sent Stuart a text:
Sorry about earlier. Thank you for dinner. C x
I waited and waited for the reply. Nearly half an hour later, it came. Just three words, more than I deserved, but even so, my heart sank.
It’s fine. Whatever.
I called Sylvia in January, the week after she started her new job. The first time I called it went to answering machine. I was going to send a text, but couldn’t find the right words or put them in the right order. I chose a bad day to do it; my head was splitting and I was clearly suffering a bout of hormones because I couldn’t stop crying.
That evening I tried again, and this time I got through. I was half expecting the noise of a bar in the background but it was quiet. “Hi, Sylv, it’s me.”
“Catherine, how are you?”
“I’m okay, honey. How’s it all going? I’m dying to hear. Is the job fab? Is it a good time for a chat?”
“It’s fine. I’m going out in an hour or so, but I was just sitting here pretending to read through some bits and pieces. It’s going well. Incredibly busy, though, manic in fact. Feels like the
Lancaster Guardian
’s a long way away.”
“And the flat?”
“Well, that’s a whole other story. I’m sandwiched between someone who loves the Carpenters at top volume all bloody day, and a couple who switch between arguing loudly and fucking loudly. I found myself humming along to ‘We’ve Only Just Begun’ all day today. So, I’m flat hunting.”
“I miss you, Sylv.”
“I know, lovie, I miss you too. How’s Lancaster?”
“Raining.”
“And work?”
“Tiring, busy, stressful.”
“And the girls?”
“Haven’t seen them for a while.”
“What? Have you been sick or something? You haven’t been going out?”
“Well, I’ve been out with Lee. But I haven’t seen the girls for ages.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. I could hear her rooting through what sounded like a pile of shoes.
“I’m worried, Sylv. It’s all going wrong.”
“What is?” she said. I could still hear noises and then a muttered expletive.
“With Lee. I’m just—sometimes I’m just a bit scared.”
At last she stopped what she was doing. “Why are you scared? You’re not scared of Lee, surely—he’s wonderful. Are you scared of losing him, somehow?”
I paused while I tried to find the right words. “He’s not always wonderful.”
“You been having fights?”
“Sort of, I guess. I don’t know—I’ve been tired, he’s been working a lot. When I do see him it always seems to be on his terms, and he doesn’t like me going out without him anymore.”
Sylvia sighed. “To be fair, though, honey, he’s kind of got a point. Look at the way you were—the way we all were—when he met you. You were going out every night you could with the sole intention of flirting. No wonder he’s nervous about letting you out.”
I didn’t say anything, so she went on, “You’re in a relationship now, hon. It’s a whole different ball game.”
Her voice softened a little.
“Lee’s a good man, Catherine. Don’t forget some of the complete shits you’ve been out with. I’m sure he’s just being protective of you. And not only is he totally fucking gorgeous, but he loves you, he really does. Everyone said that, after the dinner party. He’s so obviously completely and totally in love with you. That’s what we’re all waiting for. I wish I had that. I wish I had what you have.”
“I know.” I was trying not to let her hear my tears.
“Look, honey, I’ve got to shoot. Call me over the weekend, yeah?”
“I will. You have fun. And take care, okay?”
“I’ll be good! Ciao for now. Ciao, baby,” and she was gone.
Whatever.
I’d checked the flat so many times in the past twenty-four hours that I was too tired to continue. The relief it usually brought didn’t come, but the panic didn’t come back either. I was thinking about Stuart and wondering if I’d blown it. Wondering if the only friend I had here was ever going to speak to me again.
He didn’t understand. How could he? He hadn’t a clue.
In any case, I was doing him a favor. He’d been hurt too, he’d been betrayed by Hannah. He didn’t need another screwed-up relationship with someone like me.
This morning I heard voices from somewhere inside the house. I crept to the door and listened, straining to hear. It was Stuart and Mrs. Mackenzie, downstairs.
“. . . keeping warm?”
I couldn’t hear exactly what she said in reply. It seemed to go on and on, as though she was not pausing between one sentence and the next. I thought about opening the door so I could hear, but then I’d have to go through all the checks again.
Then I heard her laugh, and his laugh too. “Things have come a long way since then, haven’t they?” he said.
Then Mrs. Mackenzie again—odd words, here and there, phrases I recognized from our brief conversations by the door: “mustn’t keep you . . . things to do . . .”
And Stuart: “If you ever need anything, just let me know, okay? Just shout . . .”
Then the sounds of him coming up the stairs. I pressed against the door, breathless, my eye to the peephole. Was I checking that it was definitely him? Or was I just that desperate to see him, to see if he was all right?
His shape came into view, distorted by the lens in the peephole. He was carrying a bag with a loaf of bread sticking out of the top. I wanted him to pause, to hesitate, to glance in the direction of my door, but he did none of these things. He continued up to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time.