This chapter the viewpoints switch, and everything that’s Cheryl’s point of view is in italics
*One week later*
I can’t remember his name. He’s asleep next to me, but I can’t remember his name. Earlier that night he’d told me, but his voice was too slurred and the music was too loud and I didn’t really care. It didn’t matter what his name was when we had sex. I wasn’t the one screaming.
I look around his shadowy bedroom, trying not to watch him sleep. There’s a tumbler and bottles of vodka on the floor beside his bed, and foul smelling cigarette ash scattered over the dirty sheets. So he’s a drinker.
And he’s married. His wife’s makeup is in the bathroom and she’s left a pair of her high stiletto heels on the bedroom floor. He hasn’t even bothered to take off his wedding ring, I can feel the warm, cheap metal on my skin as he holds me far too closely. I wonder where his wife is or what she’s called or if she’s pretty, prettier than me.
I look at him as he sleeps. He’s slightly overweight and his hair is quite long, but greasy and thinning on top. He isn’t really that. I try and guess his age, maybe mid thirties? Just about old enough to be my dad. He hasn’t shaved, and his stubble is rough and hot like sandpaper, creating dark shadows along his chubby jaw line. His skin is rough too, and his pores are overflowing with sweat that stinks of stale alcohol. His chest is bloated and hairless, coloured a milky, greenish white. His palms are large and sticky and the back of his hands are coated in a smattering of thick dark hair. I hate the way they feel on my body, they make my skin crawl.
I close my eyes and remember Cheryl sleeping, the way her hair falls over the pillow and her lips are slightly parted. Her skin was flawless and glowing in the early morning sunlight. Her body was toned and tanned like a tiny supermodel.
I miss her. I want to sleep next to her again. I want to go to sleep next to her every night, and wake next to her every morning. I want to be able to be the person she deserves.
I watch the lights on the ceiling as cars and busses fly past on the road directly underneath the window. I listen to the never-ending hum of engines and streetlights and aeroplanes flying overhead. An ambulance screeches past, sirens blaring and blue flashing lights cutting through the darkness. Beside me he rolls over onto his chest, so I can see his hairy back. His breathing is loud and raspy. He loosens his grip on my body.
Quickly, expertly I wriggle away from his grasp. I sit on the side of the bed, naked, and inspect the angry red lines on my body where he was holding me too tight. Then I stand up and put back on my underwear. On the floor I find a pair of his wife’s jeans. They’re too big for me, but I put them on anyway. His wallet is lying on the bedside table, where he threw it the night before, and I tentatively open it, feeling the cheap fake leather scratch under my fingers. I take all the cash, about £90, and pocket it along with my mobile. Then I pick up one of the half empty bottles of vodka from the floor beside me.
I go into the bathroom. I look at his wife’s makeup that’s spread all over the sink. Does he love her? Does he love her like I love Cheryl? No. If he loved her like I love Cheryl then I would not be here, sleeping on her side of the bed. The tiles are black and white and cracked and covered in grime. So neither of them are clean freaks like Cheryl. I screw up my nose before carefully tip-toeing over them. They aren’t as cold as the tiles in Cheryl’s bathroom.
I open the mirrored medicine cabinet. There’s painkillers. Lots of them. An idea hits me. Not a nice idea. I think about Diana and Sacha, sleeping in a dingy hotel room being babysat by a girl I barely knew and I wasn’t sure that I trusted. I think about Sacha’s smile and the girl that my daughter could grow up to be. She could be beautiful, with her coffee coloured skin and dark eyes and curls. She could be clever and kind and all the things I can’t be. I know that I’m selfish and stupid and heartless. I know that I should fight for my daughter’s sake. But maybe Diana would be better off without me, and with a proper family who can give her everything she deserves.
I think about Cheryl. Her smile and her laugh and how much she must hate me right now. Maybe even more than I hate myself.
So I pick out a packet and flick it open, pulling out the tiny plastic rows of pills coated in silver foil. I pop them all, letting them fall into the palm of my hand, like bloated grains of white rice. Twelve. I pulled out another packet, and popped them all too. Twenty four. How many do I need? I imagine being left just alive, clinging on by a thread. I imagine hospitals and needles and permanent brain damage. Just in case I pull out another packet, and empty it. Thirty six. That must be enough.
I sit on the edge of the bath. The tiles are cold and sticky under my feet. My eyes are tired and red raw, but dry. I can’t cry anymore. I can’t do anything anymore. What the hell is the point of any of this anyway? I can’t carry on without her.
My hands don’t shake as I pull out my Blackberry and type a message. Then I delete it. I type it again. I delete it. I rub my eyes, and type it one final time. My thumb hovers over the keys. I suck in at the air, filling my lungs. It still hurts, I can feel the bruises along my side burn. They won’t ever get a chance to heal properly. I press send.
In the pocket of that other woman’s jeans, my phone vibrates furiously. I try to ignore it, but pull it out anyway. When I read the name on the screen I drop it to the floor with a clatter. I don’t bend to pick it up immediately, I just try and steady my breathing and stop my heart from hammering. My heart must be beating so loud I’m sure that it will wake him. But he sleeps on in a hot, drunken stupor.
Slowly I pick it up and curl on the floor, placing the tablets in a tiny white mountain beside me. My hands shake as I read the name “Cheryl” on the screen again. Then I open the message.
It simply reads I love you, and I’m sorry. I just wanted to say goodbye. C x
I read it again. And again. I bite my lips and bite back the tears. I look at the pile of painkillers beside me. I imagine life without her. I unscrew the top off the vodka and take a long gulp, straight from the bottle. This isn’t sickly sweet or taste of raspberries. It burns the roof of my mouth and the tip of my tongue, like acid or fire. It blurs my mind. I take another gulp. I pick up the pills.
Goodbye.
She’d said goodbye.
The pills drop to the floor, scattering on the tiles like broken glass.
The bottle of vodka rolls out of my grasp.
I read the message for a fourth time. Finally I realise.
I love you, and I’m sorry. I just wanted to say goodbye. C x
“No” I whisper.
I turn off my phone. I take off my jeans. I open the bathroom cabinet and stare at the razor on the bottom shelf. Ashley’s razor. I pick it up. It’s heavy, and there’s a tiny dot of dried black blood already on the silver metal. He must have cut himself shaving once. I place it carefully on the side of the bath, where I would be able to reach it easily. Then I lean over and turn on the taps.
