a small sip.
When we woke up this morning we had breakfast, but not in the restaurant. We ate sandwiches in bed – Tesco sandwiches that Mike bought before he picked me up yesterday – and washed them down with warm Fanta. Afterwards, Mike told me to shower and pack up my things because we were off to Rouen. I was a bit disappointed that we weren’t going to Paris (if you have to go to France you should at least see the Eiffel Tower), but I tried not to let it show on my face. I don’t care where we go, as long as I’m with Mike.
Not that I’ve seen much of Rouen, just a few old buildings and a glimpse of the river on the way to the hotel. We had sex again, pretty much as soon as we walked into our door. This time we did it face to face and Mike didn’t roar when he came. He did cry though, after he rolled off me, which I thought was a bit weird. When I asked him what was wrong he said that he’d never loved anyone as much as he loved me and that it would break him if I ever left him. I wiped the tears from his cheeks, covered his face with kisses and told him that would never happen. He was the love of my life and we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. He looked at me then for a really long time without saying anything, then he rolled away from me and got out of bed. When he started pulling on his clothes, I moved to get out of bed too but he told me to stay where I was. He had a surprise planned and he’d be back soon. I begged him to tell me what it was but he refused, laughing and saying it wouldn’t be a surprise if he told me. When he left the room, I heard the key turn in the lock.
That was six hours ago. The sun is going down, it’s seven o’clock and I’m really pissed off. I thought we’d go sightseeing together or something, walk hand in hand along the river, visit a few shops and see the ruined buildings Mike was talking about on the way here. Some romantic break this has been. It’s Saturday and we’re due to go back to the UK tomorrow and all we’ve done is have sex twice and eat sandwiches. And I’ve been stuck here alone all day. There isn’t even a TV and I didn’t bother bringing a book. All I’ve done is nap, throw balled-up socks into the bin, write my diary in the back of an exercise book and stare at the stupid painting on the wall opposite the bed. I could probably draw it with my eyes shut now. I can’t ever remember being so bored in my life.
I sit up sharply, pulling my knees into my chest as the locked bedroom door rattles and Mike steps into the room. He looks exhausted, and a tiny bit pissed, but he smiles as our eyes meet. ‘Hey, hey. How’s the love of my life then?’
I don’t return his smile. ‘Where’ve you been?’
He takes a step back, as though I’ve just landed a punch in his belly. ‘What?’
‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘Woah.’ His smile vanishes. ‘You don’t get to speak to me like that.’
‘I do if you leave me locked in here so you can go and get pissed.’
‘Who said I’m—’
‘You are! I can smell it. You smell like my dad. You’re a—’
‘Don’t you dare compare me to him. Don’t you dare!’
‘Get out!’ I reach for the pillow and launch it across the room. It hits him weakly on the hand and drops to the floor. ‘Get out and leave me alone. I want to go home.’
Mike crosses the room, his hands clenched into fists, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. I scoot as far back on the bed as I can and wrap my arms around my body. But he doesn’t touch me and he doesn’t say a word. Instead he stops at the end of the bed and glowers at me until I break eye contact, then he marches straight back out of the room and turns the lock.
I stare at the door, too shocked to react, but the numbness doesn’t last long and I howl with frustration and despair, then burst into tears. I cry, curled up on the bed, until the world beyond the window turns black and I pass out with exhaustion. It’s still dark when I wake but the radio alarm clock on the bedside table glows red with the time. 1.13 a.m. I pull the thin duvet up to my chin and roll over. As I do, I catch sight of a figure sitting in the armchair on the other side of the room. It’s Mike. And he’s watching me.
I’ve been living in Dad’s house for over a week now but, despite hours spent hoovering, cleaning and scrubbing, the smell still hits me the second I open the front door and step into the porch. Dampness, mustiness and cold. It’s the scent of neglect.
I glance at my watch as I step into the kitchen. Twenty to six. Mike said he would be here a little after six thirty.
I trail from the kitchen to the living room and sit down on the sofa. Dad’s chair, in all its horrible tweedy green worn glory, is closer to the TV, but I haven’t sat in it once since I got here. I’m trying to work up the nerve to throw it away.
Dad’s friend Bill was the one who found him. He realised something was wrong, he told me on the phone, when the local pub landlord told him that Dad hadn’t been in in over a week. He went to check on him after closing time. The curtains weren’t drawn, the lights were on and the TV was blaring away in the corner of the room. Bill said he could tell by the way Dad was slumped in his chair that he was dead. A heart attack, the coroner said.
It wasn’t hard to pick Bill out from the mourners at Dad’s cremation. Other than me, the only other people in the room were the celebrant, the funeral director and three elderly men. Unsure what to do after the ceremony ended, I stood by the door and shook hands with the scant group of mourners as they left. Bill gripped my hand in both of his.
‘I know your dad was a grumpy old bugger,’ he said, his voice rough and rasping, ‘but he was proud of you. He told me a few times that he had a daughter living the high life and earning herself a small fortune in London.’
I smiled and thanked Bill for his good wishes. I didn’t mention that Dad and I hadn’t spoken in over ten years – other than a brief and awkward phone call when I rang him five years ago to tell him that Mum had died of cancer – and that he had no idea what I was doing or how much I was earning in London (certainly not a small fortune). I did cry though, when I got back to my car. Proud was not a word in Dad’s vocabulary when it came to me. Disgrace – yes. Embarrassment – that too. While Mum rushed up to me and wrapped me in her arms after I was brought back from France, Dad could barely look at me. When he did it was to ask whether I had been harmed. Harmed. He meant, had I had sex with Mike? I could tell by the way his eyes swept the length of my body then focussed on a spot on the floor near my feet. Afterwards, Mum and I went back to our flat. We stayed there, locked together on the sofa with the TV on loud while the phone rang off the hook and journalists tapped at the kitchen window and thumped on the front door. One night I heard an argument between Mum and Dad on the phone. She was trying to keep her voice down but I heard her snap, ‘I can’t believe you’d suggest that, Steve. This is your daughter we’re talking about and she’s fourteen years old.’ Dad thought I’d brought it all on myself. He wasn’t the only one who thought that. I did too.
Mum tried to convince me to testify against Mike. She said she knew that I loved him but
