of…
When you gave that little piece of yourself to someone else for safekeeping, how did you know when to stop? How did you know if you’d given too much of yourself away? Once it was gone, there was no getting it back. And I knew just how destructive that kind of imbalance in a relationship could be. Had seen it first-hand.
I took a step back—mentally, at least—and let out a dry laugh, causing Adam to frown.
This was me we were talking about, wasn’t it? The girl who manipulated people, situations, just about anything, to get what she wanted. The girl who knew everything about taking and nothing about giving. I was just Scrooge in a circle skirt and eyeliner. Surely if anyone was safe from my mother’s fate it was me?
But that left me with another problem.
I walked over to my retro, cherry-red fake leather sofa and sat down with a bump. ‘Why on earth do you want me, anyway, Adam?’ I kicked off my shoes and dug my toes into the shaggy rug. ‘I play games, I’m demanding and selfish…’ For the first time that evening I looked him straight in the eye. ‘The truth is, I don’t know if I’m even capable of the kind of love you’re talking about.’
He came and sat beside me, took my hands in his and made me look at him. ‘It’s the girl who disguises herself in the vintage clothes who does all of those things. The girl who practises her walk. The girl who is never seen without her trademark crimson…’ He dragged the pad of his thumb across my bare lips. ‘But I’m not in love with that girl. You don’t need to be that girl with me.’
A tear slid down my face. And then another, and another. He really meant it. He loved me that much, and I didn’t deserve it. A space inside myself that I hadn’t even realised was achingly empty started to fill up. And with the fullness came more tears.
I don’t know how long I cried, but Adam just held me, whispered soft words into my ear: he believed in me, he knew what I was capable of, and it was much more than I gave myself credit for. Eventually, worn out, I hiccupped to a halt. Still Adam didn’t move. I was so exhausted I started to drift in and out of a leaden sleep. I was only vaguely aware of him moving away and fetching the duvet from my bed, of him draping it over me and kissing me tenderly on the head. I fumbled for his hand and found his trouser leg instead. I didn’t care; I held on with all the strength I had left.
‘Don’t go,’ I mumbled. ‘Stay. I need you.’
There. The first time I’d ever said those words to another human being. I’d never admitted to needing anyone before. Ever. Not even my mother. Especially not my mother.
Adam didn’t hesitate. He just squidged down next to me on the sofa, pulled a corner of the duvet over himself and wrapped me up inside him. I wanted to touch as much of him as possible, to imprint his warmth on as much of my surface area as I could, and as sleep began to fog my mind once again I reached for his fingers and tangled mine with his.
And then I drifted off to sleep. Holding Adam’s hand.
Warmth. Touch. Those were the first blissful sensations I was aware of early the following morning. Adam’s fingers still loosely entwined in mine. His breath, warm and even, at the back of my neck as he lay spooned behind me. I tightened my fingers round his, lifted both our hands towards my face and softly kissed his knuckle.
He must have stayed awake long after I’d succumbed to dreams, because he was sleeping heavily now and I slid out of his hold fairly easily. There was a slight snuffle and a twitch as I stood up, but I tucked the duvet back around his neck and he drifted off again.
I didn’t leave the room straight away, but stayed there, watching him. Why that prickling at the top of my nose was back, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I felt as if I wanted to empty myself of everything I was, everything I ever would be, and pour it into him. The urge was so strong it was a physical sensation, welling up inside me, threatening to burst through the very pores of my skin.
I’d been wrong about not being able to love Adam the way he wanted me to. As I stood, unable to tear my eyes from him in the lemony dawn light, I knew I was my mother’s daughter.
Just before I tiptoed out of the living room, feeling raw and vulnerable, I grabbed Mum’s photo off the mantelpiece and hugged it to my chest. I took it with me and laid it on my bed before heading for the bathroom. After all that luxury I was desperate for the comfort of my own surroundings, my own temperamental shower that I knew just how to get the best out of, my haphazard and kitsch decorating style, with scarves over lampshades and classic movie posters on the wall.
When I came out of the shower, wrapped in a fluffy red towel, I paused and picked up the photo I’d left on the bed. The image of my mother, smiling and carefree, blurred. I hadn’t known her like that. Of course I’d seen her smile and heard her laugh, but I’d been too young to remember much of the time my parents had been together. After my dad had left, even if her face had been making all the right adjustments to portray happiness, it hadn’t rung true. There had always been that moment when she finished laughing, a pause when the sadness would seep back in, a moment when she returned to her default state.
I wish you were here, Mum. I wish you could tell me what to do.
But she wasn’t here. And the desire to have her with me was just yet another fantasy. While she’d been alive she’d only been half present in my life, both physically and emotionally. I kissed the tip of my finger and pressed it onto her smile.
I love you, Mum, but I can’t be like you. Sorry.
I placed the frame on my bedside table and got dressed, choosing my favourite black pencil skirt and a hot-pink wing-collared blouse, finished off with raspberry suede heels with roses on the toes. I twisted my hair into a French pleat, but left my blunt fringe loose, so it hung above my eyebrows like a curtain. The jet-black liner went on with little flicks of my wrists to create wings, and with each sweep of rich and luxurious lipstick across my lips I felt my power returning.
When I’d finished I walked into the hall to check my reflection in the full-length mirror. I looked like me again. But not the frivolous, carefree version of myself I had expected to see. The glimmer of fun in this Coreen’s eyes had hardened into iron.
I picked up my patent black handbag and took one last look around the living room before I left. It was far too early to open up the shop, but I needed a walk, some time to clear my head. Adam was still unconscious, but this time as I looked at him the welling sensation didn’t return.
I blew the sleeping Adam a kiss, ending with a little finger wave, and then walked out of the room and left my flat, my shiny black handbag swinging from my finger in synchronisation with my hips.
I turned the sign on the door of Coreen’s Closet to ‘Closed’ and sighed. I was very tempted to rest my head against the cool glass and let it soothe my aching brow, but Alice was watching me. She’d been watching me all day.
She was standing behind the counter, checking the till. I turned back to face her and gave her a wide Crimson Minx smile.
‘Out with it,’ was all she said.
I rolled my eyes.
Despite the swirling pregnancy hormones, my business partner was still able to pin me down with a look. ‘I mean it. How did the weekend go?’
I blinked innocently. ‘I’ve already told you
