got to New York.
There was still a lot of stuff in the house, though. I couldn’t just pretend I was suddenly deciding to declutter—it wasn’t worth the risk. With my New York salary I could afford to keep up the rent on the Lancaster house, for now. Maybe in a few months’ time I could come back and hand the keys back to the landlady, and clear out my stuff. All I needed was a few months, just long enough for him to forget about me and move on.
I stole a glance over the top of the display counter, and there he was—right over the other side of the store, by the entrance, to one side—wearing his suit, today, I noticed—maybe he’d had some kind of a meeting with the management.
I had to pretend I hadn’t seen him, although I’d have loved to have given him a wave. It put paid to my plans to visit the post office, though. I would try again tomorrow—I’d tell him I needed to collect a parcel for a friend, or something.
Friday 22 February 2008
I woke up suddenly, going from deep, dark sleep to wide awake, heart thumping, in a matter of a few seconds.
I was in Stuart’s bed, and it was perfectly dark. No sound except him breathing next to me. I listened with my whole body, straining to hear whatever it was that had woken me.
Silence.
I looked down at Stuart, the shape of him illuminated in the half-light from the window, his shoulder a pale curve. I was still getting used to sleeping with him, even though we’d spent every spare minute together since he’d come back from Aberdeen. Every time I woke up and he was there, it took me a few moments to calm down and remember.
I’d been dreaming about Sylvia. Stuart was there with me, and we were naked, making love in bed as though we were all alone, just as we had been doing just a few hours ago. In my dream I’d looked up and she’d been there, in the doorway, the pink beret set firmly on her blonde hair, her mouth thin, a mean smile.
There it was again, a sound. Not in the flat, though—outside. I got out of bed and crept around to the other side, to the window, pulling Stuart’s shirt off the hook on the back of the door on the way past and putting it on, wrapping it over my front.
It wasn’t quite dawn, still perfectly dark, the sky just beginning to turn gray. I looked out from the side of the window over the backyard, the wall a rectangle of darkness, a regular shape, the grass gray tussocks underneath. I couldn’t see the shed from here, my balcony below was in the way. I leaned over the windowsill and peered down into the darkness, starting to relax, when suddenly—something moved.
At the same moment Stuart spoke from the bed and made me jump out of my skin. “What are you doing? Come back to bed.”
“There’s someone outside,” I said, an urgent whisper.
“What?” He swung his legs out of the bed and stretched for a moment before coming to stand next to me. “Where?”
“Down there,” I whispered. “Near the shed.”
I stood back from the window a little, not wanting to obscure his view.
“I can’t see anything.” He put his arm around my shoulders and yawned. “You’re cold, come back to bed.”
He saw my expression and looked out of the window again, then to my horror lifted the sash. It made a noise like the door to Hell creaking open. “Look,” he said suddenly, pointing.
A shape darted across the lawn and under the gap between the gate and the lawn, a dark shape, but definitely not a human. “A fox,” he said. “It was a fox. Now come here.”
He pushed the window back down, peeled his shirt away from my shoulders and drew me back into the warm bed. My skin was cold against his but he warmed me quickly enough, with his tongue and his hands and his whole naked body against mine, until I forgot all about the shape I’d seen; forgot how it was actually nothing like a fox, but bigger and darker and bulkier; how it seemed to be on my balcony, on the floor below; and how I’d seen the reflection of the gray sky against something shiny, something long and thin and shiny, like a long knife.
Thursday 10 June 2004
It was too much to hope that Lee would