I’m bored. Diana is sleeping in her cot, but part of me feels like waking her just so I have something to do. I wonder aimlessly from the kitchen to the living room, and then back to the kitchen again. I sit on the bottom of the stairs and draw shapes with my fingers on the marble floor, the heat from my hands leaving little lines that are visible only for a second before disappearing. I rest my head on my knees and gaze vacantly out into space, wandering how a house this huge can be quite so silent. At my old house I could always hear the pipes gurgling or a tap dripping or my dad stumbling around downstairs. I start to hum, just to check that I haven’t suddenly gone deaf and then stop myself, realising that I’m no longer drawing shapes with my fingers, but a name, repeated over and over, sometimes surrounded with little love-hearts. Cheryl, Cheryl, Cheryl...
I stand up, determined to do something, anything, to keep my mind off her. I skip up the stairs, the marble very cold under my bare feet, and go into Cheryl’s bedroom. I’d barely been in her room since the first night; we’d slept in the spare room and last night, on the sofa. Nothing has changed, the newspapers, the photo frames, the rings and the money are all exactly as they were on the first night. The first night.
It feels like forever, but it was only a few days. On Saturday I was camping on the streets outside the signing. Today is Thursday and I’m sitting on her bed, waiting for her to come home. And I’ve already forgotten how to function without her. I touch the soft white sheets, straightening out all the rumples in them and trying to work out if I’ve ever felt this way before. Every time I blink I can see her face, her smile, as clearly as though they are permanently burned into my eyelids. I keep thinking I can hear her voice, and I feel as though her adorable laugh is still echoing in my ears. I put my head in my hands. “What the fcuk are you doing to me?” I whisper aloud.
I’m straight. I know I’m straight. I’ve had sex with men. ‘God knows,’ I think, my stomach knotting itself into an ashamed, sickened ball ‘I’ve probably had sex with more men than she has.’ I bite my fist, hating myself. Hating myself for being so scared, so weak. If I was a better person or a stronger person, I would be able to tell her how much she means to me. But I’m too scared. I don’t want her to hate me or, even worse, I might hurt her. And I’m not going to hurt her. Not ever.
I look at the rings on the table beside me, and I touch them gently. They’re icy cold. Two have huge, almost yellowy diamonds, and one is a plain gold band. All are still glistening and new, hardly worn. I realise suddenly that they’re exactly at eye level if you lie down on the bed, and I wonder if she’s ever fallen asleep just looking at them, not able to bring herself to wear them again. I don’t want to touch them either but my eyes are drawn to them and they make me feel sick. ‘She married him. She stood in front of everyone she loves and promised to love him forever’ I remind myself. The lights glisten on the rings, making the rich gold glow like fire. I ball my hands into fists, and hate him for hurting her.
To distract myself from the rings, I instead look at the photographs in their twisted silver frames. One is of Cheryl and him. Ashley. On their wedding day. They’re smiling, his hands gently, proudly wrapped around her slim waist. She looks happier than I’ve ever seen her, and she looks different. I wonder if it’s because she doesn’t have the shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep, or the bruises crawling across her ribs. Or maybe she does, but they’re hidden under the gold-ish silk of her wedding dress and layers of makeup. Did she know, even then, what he would do to her? I shake my head slowly and look at the other photographs.
Another is of five children, a toddler Cheryl unmistakeable at the edge of the group, her dark hair and dimples haven’t changed a bit, and she’s holding a tiny newborn baby. The others are all looking at the camera, but she’s looking at something just out of the picture, her eyes unfocussed.
