Swimming Upstream (7 page)

“So where’s Martin tonight?” I asked Catherine,
when she returned. It didn’t take Einstein to work out that her low mood was
something to do with him.

“He’s coaching. The team’s got a tournament in Manchester,”
she said. “It starts early tomorrow, so they’ve got to go tonight.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just a silly argument.”

“Does he mind you going out with me tonight?”

“Of course not. He’s fine about it. It’s nothing,
honest. Anyway, I want to hear about you.”

I took a sip of my drink and thought back to
Martin’s shouting in the background when Catherine was on the phone to me. He
had sounded really angry. I also recalled the unpleasant way he had treated
Sean, the junior staff member at the swimming pool. And then there was his flirting.
But maybe it was all something and nothing, like she said. I didn’t know enough
about their relationship to pass judgement, yet alone interfere.

“So, come on then,” she said. “What happened? With
Larsen?”

“I don’t know where to start,” I said. “Except that
everything I told you about him is the truth. He’s a lovely guy. He’s funny. And
kind. And I was crazy about him, you know?”

“Was?”

“Am. Was. I don’t know.”

“Are you sure it’s over?”

“He’s moved out,” I said. “I haven’t heard from
him since he left. It’s well over a week. Ten days to be precise. I haven’t
gone this long without speaking to him since the day we met.”

“So is this not what you really want?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It feels like a
release at times, like I can breathe again. We were just so merged into each
other. Or I was merged into him, more to the point. It’s like we were the same
person. It was suffocating. Even our initials were the same: Larsen Tyler and
Lizzie Taylor. He loved that, things like that, our sameness. He thought it was
great, how close it made us. And that was what I wanted, too, in the beginning.
I let it happen. It was so secure. And he had a ready made life, friends,
everything was there, set up for me. All I had to do in return was love him,
and believe me I did. He loved me back and it was everything I needed. And when
he got up on stage… well, being his girlfriend, basking in his reflected glory…
it was intoxicating. It was the headiest thing that ever happened to me.”

“So what changed?”

“I just don’t know. Me I suppose. Like I say, I felt
stifled, suffocated. As if I just wasn’t being myself, as though I was living
his life, not mine. But now … it’s lonely without him. It’s strange. I keep
thinking he’s just gone away on tour and he’s going to come home any minute. Except
that all of his stuff is gone. Except he just doesn’t - come home, that is.”

Catherine took my hand across the table and
squeezed it. “It must feel awful. Even if breaking up with him
was
what
you wanted. It must be really hard.”

“It is,” I said, looking up at her. “And there’s nobody
I can talk to who understands. How can you know something’s not right but still
miss someone so much?”

“
I
understand,” said Catherine. “It’s like
being torn in two.”

“That’s it. That’s exactly what it is. There is
the bit of me that is him and me, and the bit of me that is just me. And the
bit of me that is just me wants this, this new path, this new start. But the rest
of me… is missing that closeness. Missing him. So much.”

Catherine gave my hand another squeeze, and bit
her lip, pausing for a moment before she asked, “So when did you first notice
that the bit that was just you was not getting a look in?”

I looked into my empty glass and thought about
that for a moment. “The truth?” I asked her.

Catherine nodded.

“Around seven years ago.”

“You mean..?”

“Yes. Right in the beginning. I switched degree
courses. For him. My second year at college was meant to be my year abroad. I
had picked Paris as my study placement. The city. Where better to learn French?
I was so excited. It wasn’t that far away. I thought: it’s only a year. We can
visit each other. He can come and stay. I can come home in the holidays. But
when I told him, he said that it would be the end of us. He gave me an
ultimatum. He said I was either in this relationship or I was out. So I dropped
French and switched to Politics, and moved in with him instead.”

Catherine didn’t say
anything for a minute. “I can understand that,” she said finally. Which was not
what I had expected her to say, at all.

At closing time, Catherine decided that we should go to a
nightclub.

“I really want to dance,” she said. “Do you mind?”

I wasn’t in much shape for dancing, but I didn’t
want to go home just yet either and was still feeling so happy to be with her
again that I would have gone for a wet weekend in Cleethorpes if she’d asked me.

“I’ll watch you,” I laughed.

We paid our entry fee and found a seat near the
dance floor, where I sat sipping a gin and tonic while Catherine disappeared
into the crowd and the dry ice. I watched the flashing purple and yellow lights
and the spinning silver baubles that hung from the ceiling and soon spotted Catherine
amongst the other dancers, all swaying and jerking to the rhythm of the night. Catherine
danced without inhibition and looked happy, lost in the music, as she swung her
hips from side to side, her arms in the air and her long dark hair swinging
round her face as she moved. I smiled as more than one man watched her, then
came towards her and began to gyrate around her, trying to catch her attention.
She didn’t seem to notice, or simply turned her back and danced away. Eventually
she got tired and came back and sat down beside me but the music was so loud
that we soon gave up trying to talk to one another. We sat and stared at the
lights and the dancers instead.

I started to wonder what Larsen was doing right
now. He would be at a gig, probably; in fact he would be finished by now and
packing up, drinking backstage with the other band members. And no doubt some
girls, who would have found their way backstage too. Either that or he would be
with the others, Brian, Jude and Doug - our crowd. Maybe they were all down the
pub still, at one of the many lock-ins, playing cards, laughing, singing along
to the Juke Box or an acoustic guitar. One thing was for certain, he wouldn’t
be on his own.

A wave of insecurity washed over me and I realized
that that was where I wanted to be too, right now - at a lock-in in the
Jugglers Arms, with Larsen, not here with a bunch of strangers, with this
deafening music thudding and vibrating through my body. But I couldn’t admit
that, not even to Catherine. If this - going out to a nightclub with a friend
that wasn’t Larsen’s friend - was the first on my list of new experiences, a
step forward into my new life, I didn’t want to fail at the first hurdle. Besides
it would come across as a slight on her company. More than that, I just
couldn’t say it out loud that I had made a mistake in letting him go. Because
that would make it true.

“I can't believe we're doing this,” I yelled,
downing the remains of my third gin and tonic.

Catherine didn't answer. I looked round and
realised she was asleep.

A young guy appeared next to me. He must have been
all but twenty. He mouthed something at me and raised his eyebrows.

“What did you say?” I hoped he wasn't asking me to
dance.

“Do you want to dance?” he leaned forward and
shouted into my ear, nearly bursting my eardrum.

“I can't.” I looked up at him, apologetically. He
seemed nice enough, in a gangly kind of way, but I suddenly felt panicky. I didn't
want to lead him on.

“My name's Michael,” he added.

“I can't, Michael,” I said firmly. “I've got a bad
ankle,” I added, nodding at my crutch, although my ankle was actually feeling
much better.

“That's a bit of a lame excuse,” he shouted, in my
ear. “Get it? Boom boom.”

I shot him a withering look. He shrugged, and
started jigging around. “All right then,” he shouted. “What about your mate?”

We both looked at Catherine, whose head was tipped
back over the top of the leather seat, her mouth slightly ajar.

“I don't think so,” I said.

He didn't appear to be leaving. “What’s your name?”
he asked, crouching down beside me.

I told him.

“Busy Lizzie,” he said, and smiled as if that
meant something.

The DJ announced the last dance and the music
changed to a slow song. Catherine was making a snuffling noise and her hand was
twitching in her lap.

“Come on,” said Michael grabbing me by the hand. “I'll
hold you up, don't worry.”

I hobbled resignedly behind him onto the dance
floor. He put his arms round my waist and pulled me to him. I reluctantly
draped my hands over his shoulders. It felt too intimate, my breasts pushed up
against his chest like that, when I barely knew him. I could feel his breath on
my cheek and his hair tickling my forehead.

The song was Madonna’s “Crazy for You.” You
couldn’t actually dance to it. So we just went round and round, like you do to
slow songs at discos. It had always seemed a bit stupid and pointless to me,
not actually going anywhere, especially with a load of strangers dotted around
you doing exactly the same thing. It wasn't as if any skill or dexterity were
required, either, like when you tangoed or waltzed. It was simulated sex,
really, which is fine when you feel like simulating sex, but I didn't. Not
there, not with him, in spite of all the gin.

When the song ended he tried to kiss me. I let him
for a moment out of a combination of pity and curiosity, until he started
trying to push his tongue into my mouth. It felt hard and dry, and unpleasantly
alive, like a small furry animal. I pushed him gently away and limped back to
Catherine, who was sitting up and rubbing her eyes. The lights were coming up
and the bar staff were collecting glasses. Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares
to You” was now blasting out of the speakers, and it was just about all I could
bear.

“What time is it?” Catherine asked.

“Time to go home. Very
much so, in fact.”

We joined a queue at the taxi rank and eventually got into
a mini-cab. As we turned into Catherine's street and pulled up outside the
house, she stiffened and peered nervously out of the window. Amidst the row of
darkened terraced houses, one glowed with light from every window.

“It must be Martin,” she said, looking startled. “What’s
he doing back home?”

I paid the driver and followed Catherine up the
path. Just as she was putting her key in the lock the door swung open and in a
flash she'd disappeared inside, the door slamming shut behind her. I stopped on
the path, stunned, not quite sure what had happened. I turned and looked back
at the deserted street behind me. The taxi was just turning round the corner
out of sight.

There wasn't a sound from the house. I looked at
my watch; it was a quarter to three and I had no idea where I was. I'd just
decided to take my chances on hobbling back down the road when the front door
opened and Catherine appeared looking flushed and apologetic.

“Sorry about that,” she whispered. “Come in.”

I stepped inside and caught sight of Martin,
surveying us both, stony-faced, from the top of the stairs. I followed
Catherine into the front room.

“Don't worry, he'll be all right in the morning,”
she said in a strange voice as if talking to herself and, gathering up an
armful of cushions that were scattered on the floor, she patted the sofa and
disappeared out of the door. A few minutes later she reappeared with a pillow
and a blanket, which she handed to me without a word before she left again,
switching off the light and closing the door behind her.

Moonlight was streaming in through a gap in the
curtains, casting a shaft of light across the carpet. I lay back on the sofa,
pulling the blanket up to my chin. Through the silence and stillness of the
room came the heavy sound of footsteps pacing up and down overhead and Martin’s
voice, booming through the plasterwork in didactic tones. Every now and again I
could hear the faint sound of Catherine, responding, wheedling, coaxing, and
finally sobbing. I pulled the blanket over my head and stayed that way with the
blood rushing in my ears long after the noise had stopped.

Slowly, I became aware of another presence in the
room. Opening my eyes tentatively, I blinked in the darkness, seeing nothing but
the shadows of the furniture. I lifted my hand slowly from under the blanket
and reached for the table lamp beside me, found the switch and pushed. It
clicked, but nothing happened. I lay rigid, my heart pounding in my chest. I
wanted to get up, get out but I was too afraid to move. I screwed up my eyes
tight and prayed. Sensing something at the foot of the sofa, I slowly opened
them again. In an instant, the blanket was whipped away from me. I screamed. Then
I felt my body rolling over as the sofa creaked and sank beside me.

“Shhh,” said Martin, putting his hand over my
mouth.

“What… what are you doing?” I whispered, pulling
his hand away.

“You screamed. You were having a bad dream. I came
to see if you were all right.”

I blinked and moved my head. “What time is it?”

“Early still. Around six.” I realised he was
right, that it was now morning. A shaft of early morning sunlight now beamed
into the room through the gap in the curtains and specks of dust were dancing
through the air. I saw that the blanket was still over me, after all. My body
was stiff and aching.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“So what were you dreaming about?”

“Nothing. Like you say, just a bad dream.”

Martin reached out and stroked my hair back from
off my forehead. “Poor thing.”

This didn’t feel right, but I didn’t know what to
say.

“I’m okay, really,” I sat up slightly. I was
relieved to remember that I was still fully dressed. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”