have to go, Rowena.’
She seems not to know what to do. For an instant, her face softens, and her eyes fill with tears that she manages to keep in. Then she says, ‘Nobody’s stopping you.’
I stagger up the twirly stairs and out of the restaurant and into the waiting taxi. My lips taste of salt because I’m crying; I realise I must have been biting them, because the tears are stinging. Rowena is lost to me. Lost to herself. I saw that in my first few minutes with her. Even before you walked in and did what you did.
Thursday, 5 February, 8.02 a.m.
There is another envelope from you this morning, waiting for me on the mat inside the front door. You must have pushed it through the slot very early for it to have escaped Miss Norton’s notice. I hurry along the path to the taxi, relieved that at least you aren’t actually here.
As the taxi zooms down the winding hill I dial Rowena’s hotel. She’s going back to London today. Out of your reach, I hope. But also out of mine.
She answers with a slurred, ‘What?’
‘It’s me.’
‘He’s not here, if that’s why you’re calling. He only stayed in the restaurant long enough to tell me he can’t help me with my writing any more, or have anything to do with me. He says he won’t come between two lifelong friends.’
But you already have: Rowena slams the receiver down with a clang and the line goes dead.
At least I know she’s safe. At least you’ve pulled back from her as I predicted. You’ve got what you wanted. You’ve got as much of me as she can give you.
I tear open your envelope. In it is a ticket to the ballet. Tonight’s performance. And a letter.
You must be stressed, Clarissa. I know you don’t mean to treat me unkindly. You can’t have meant the cruel things you said. I only want to make you happy. I wanted last night to be special for you, reuniting you with your friend, but I can see I misjudged it. I promise never to see Rowena again. Please let me make it up to you by taking you out. On your own. Just the two of us. I’m all yours. No gooseberry. I know you’ll love the Prokofiev Cinderella. We share so much, Clarissa. Meet me in the foyer at 7. Don’t forget your ticket! We’ll have a drink first. And a late dinner after.
Love, Rafe.
I hardly know where to begin to rip apart the madness of your letter. Do you not hear the things I say to you – no, no, and no – again and again? I think you must not take it in; you’re in the grip of a crazed kind of shifting reasoning, even a terrifying sincerity.
Did you rifle through my CDs and DVDs when you were in my flat? Because you are right, guessing how I adore that ballet. But you can’t imagine how I’d hate it with you. From a different man the gesture might have been sweet. It might have been romantic. But not from you. The man who exploited my oldest friend and turned her against me. From you this ticket is an assault, not a gift. Surely you must know, deep down, that you won’t be sitting next to me in the theatre tonight?
But I can’t shake my dread of what you will do when the curtain rises and I’m not there. I can’t help picturing you standing on the tiled floor, watching yourself in the elaborate gilt mirror, waiting, angry and upset when I don’t turn up, the man behind the ticket collection counter noticing you, guessing you’ve been stood up.
You were a baby once. What could have happened to you, to make you like this?
‘Are you able to continue this morning, Miss Lockyer?’ Mr Morden looked sad and concerned. His voice was soft and gentlemanly.
The defendants all gazed ahead, their faces blank, sitting very still in their shiny wooden box, on chairs that were covered in the same royal blue woven upholstery as the jurors’ and barristers’. It was all very blue, but for the judge’s deep brown leather.
‘I’m okay. Thank you.’ She spoke as if the conversation were just between the two of them. Clarissa saw then that her voice could be pretty, in different circumstances.
‘I know yesterday was very difficult for you.’
Miss Lockyer’s hair was in two low ponytails, like a little girl’s. She tugged at one of them.
‘Can you please tell the jury what happened next?’
Her voice was decided and unashamed. ‘I went back into the bedroom. I know it might seem strange that I got back into bed with the two men who’d just raped me, but I thought if I didn’t they’d come and look for me and that would be worse. I huddled in the corner of the bed, in a kind of ball, hugging myself. You just can’t imagine how cold that flat was. Their weight was on the duvet, so I could only pull a bit of it over me. I was scared if I tugged at it too much they’d wake. I dozed, I was that tired, but I kept jerking out of sleep. Then it was morning and Sparkle came and stood in the doorway and signalled for me to follow him into the lounge.’
Tuesday, 11 November, 9.00 a.m. (Three Months Ago)
It is the morning after your book launch party. I fight my way out of a nightmare, thrashing to get free of a very dark place. I am in my own bed, lying on my side, my back to you. You are pressing the front of your body into me, spooning me, and I can feel your erection. Your hand is over my breast, stuck to it like a suction cup. You are kissing the nape of my neck and whispering that you’ve been watching me dream. You are holding me so tight I have to struggle hard to wriggle out of your arms and snatch my dress from the floor to cover myself as I rush into the bathroom to be sick. When I’m finished, grabbing the sink to balance, I look down at my body. Spots of blood have dried on the insides of my thighs, where there are red marks that I don’t want to think about. They will turn into bruises the next day. My lips and wrists and ankles are chafed. My hair is matted and tangled. My eyes hurt too much. I turn the lights off. I stand beneath the hot shower in the dark, shampooing my hair and soaping every inch of my skin. It stings, when I wash between my legs. I brush and floss my teeth. My jaw aches. The last thing I can recall is your taking my dress off. After that, there is only blackness. The bathroom door is locked behind me. I ignore your repeated knocks and concerned questions from outside. Late that afternoon I need an emergency appointment at the doctor’s to get antibiotics for a bladder infection. I am ill for three days, after: I have a pounding headache that just won’t go; I vomit and vomit until there is nothing left but bile; I sleep and sleep. No matter how much I sleep, I cannot wake up.
Miss Lockyer began to pant. Abruptly, dramatically, her skin paled. It was easy to see this in the clear light pouring through Court 12’s domed glass ceiling and the row of windows on the wall behind Clarissa – the only windows in the room and far too high to look out of. It could have been a ballroom. Maybe it was, long ago.
‘I need a break. I’m sorry. I need a break.’ Miss Lockyer covered her face.
They were sitting in the small, windowless waiting room just outside Court 12.
‘She’s not coming back,’ Annie said.
Clarissa said softly, ‘I’m sure
