Life had a habit of getting out of control whenever Frances made a decision, and she usually had no idea how it happened. Like the time she decided to take driving lessons and found herself in an affair with the tutor, fucking for the whole two hours down a muddy lane, him tilting the mirrors this way and that, until a year later, when the wife found out, and Frances realised she’d spent hundreds of pounds effectively paying for sex because she sure as hell hadn’t learnt to drive. And like when she decided to take evening meditation classes and accidentally burnt the hall down when she flicked a cigarette and it went sailing, unnoticed, in through the open window. She always found herself standing and staring at what was unfolding before her, watching the disaster, the fallout, the flames, knowing it was her fault but unsure quite how or why. And so it was now, with Elaine moving in. It had somehow gotten out of control, and all she could do was watch.
She had, with unfounded optimism, presumed Elaine would be like a rent-paying pot plant, taking up a corner. She recalled the command in the classroom during colouring-in: Do not go outside of the lines. She assumed Elaine would instinctively obey this, and stay within the boundaries pre-set by Frances, keep herself neat and tucked away. It would still be Frances’ home, Frances’ flat; Elaine would exist in designated areas, a drawer here, a shelf there, that was it. Surprise turned quickly to despondency: She’d had no idea that Elaine had so much stuff, nor that the stuff would appear en masse the very next evening, nor that rapidly the day after that, more boxes would arrive, only to be enthusiastically emptied, many items—often ghastly—held aloft as if not seen for decades. What could she do but watch as these were then carried around and placed on shelves, critically observed, moved, rearranged, Elaine tapping her forefinger on her chin, scrutinising. What could she do but flop on the sofa, eating Cutie clementines and drinking lager, a dumb audience to the performance, which continued into the afternoon. Occasionally Elaine would say, “What do you think about this painting? Here, or here?” and in response she shrugged or gave a bemused thumbs-up. She had tried being diplomatic about it—“We probably need to both get rid of some things, to make space, it won’t all fit”—but it had been met with shock and confusion.
“What? Why? There’s plenty of room.”
“I don’t think there is, Elaine. Look.” And Frances had pointed demonstrably at a bookshelf, collapsed at one end through weight, now propped up by novels rather than supporting them.
Elaine ignored her. She had quite astonishing levels of optimism. “You just have to think creatively,” she’d said, balancing a piggy bank atop a chopping board atop the cooking books in the kitchenette. “This is both of ours now,” she said, and Frances wondered if she meant the pig or the flat.
She meant the flat.
Frances watched the relocation of her toaster to make way for the anvil of a KitchenAid and realised she did not have a lodger but a common-law partner, and as such her possessions were being shoved aside, budged over, to squeeze in and accommodate Elaine’s bizarre assortment of clothes, cuddly toys, books, tools, beauty products, and collections. She had never noticed before that Elaine was this jumble of a person. During dating, people keep themselves so tucked away, presenting only snapshots of themselves, their true wonders and weirdnesses kept under wraps. It is only after moving in together that these rise to the surface and we can see what we are really dealing with. That Elaine could, potentially, wear a Panama hat, a Disney Princess costume, and vibrating love-eggs all in one go both amused and disturbed Frances. That she had childhood toys in one box and sex toys in another was also a little odd. The Furby—called Edwin—had taken up residence on a shelf in the bedroom between Anna Karenina and Kitchen Confidential. Frances’ most prized and precious shells, once lovingly lined up in ascending size order on the kitchen windowsill, now were piled up higgledy-piggledy to make way for a floral cake stand. The box of horrors remained on the floor by the wall, concealed by shadow, slightly open in an increasingly menacing manner. Frances began to feel hemmed in, as if every item unpacked and rehomed was a brick in the walls of Elaine being constructed and cemented around her into a vast, inescapable maze.
And there had been an unsettling moment as she watched Elaine unpack her clothes. She had been standing behind her, next to the bed. There was just something in the way Elaine hung them—lovingly, smoothing them, like she thought they might purr—that made Frances want to snatch one of those cashmere cardigans by both arms, wrap it round Elaine’s neck, and choke her. She imagined pulling it tighter, she heard the dry sound of the fibres straining—she hated those fucking cardigans—and saw Elaine’s feet dancing about on their heels until reduced to tiny, flinching spasms.
“We can share drawer space, can’t we?” Elaine had been saying. “I don’t mind wearing your knickers.” But Frances hadn’t replied. Elaine looked back over her shoulder and smiled. “I’m so glad you asked me to move in. It is about time, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Frances replied, snapping out of it, sweating. “About time.”
Elaine, stepping forwards, looked through her fringe and grinned mischievously, and whispered, “Someone looks a little frisky?” and she swept down like a gannet. The cardigan hunched on its hanger, as if to say with a shrug, “Missed your chance.”
It had been a frightening moment because she could see it so clearly and, for a moment, it was only Elaine’s superior strength that stopped her, aware that if she didn’t succeed she might find herself chasing Elaine around the flat with a kitchen knife, jabbing at the air behind her as she fled, Elaine laughing and leaping over boxes and waving her arms in the air, thinking it was all a game. They had been dating for three months and Elaine sensed nothing odd or unnerving about Frances because Elaine was stupidly, foolishly, hopelessly in love, and as such heard warning bells as the chimes of a future wedding. It wasn’t that she was unintelligent per se, just that love makes a mockery of us, turns life into a cartoon of talking deer and sunny glades. Frances kept waiting for her to calm down. She forgot that, not so long ago, she had been the same, giddy in love and full of romance and poetry, the glory of a sunrise, the beauty of another’s eyes, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. She did not see the similarities, because to be loved, rather than loving, was so incredibly tedious. Even before Elaine had moved in, it had been annoying as hell. When they were apart Frances’ phone filled up with messages and photos and missed calls. On date days she couldn’t walk two steps down the road without Elaine’s hand reaching for hers, as if she mustn’t cross the road alone. And when Elaine stayed over, Frances couldn’t so much as wash up a spoon or make coffee without Elaine suddenly appearing behind her like a giant, groping shadow. Even in the shower, while Frances was trying to have a quiet, blissful orgasm, Elaine would come bursting into the bathroom declaring she needed a piss. All the signs were there that living together was not going to be fun for Frances—she should not have been surprised. And because Elaine was oh, so in love, she misinterpreted much of Frances’ behaviour: To her, Frances was a coquette, a tease, an imp; she thought the reluctance was a game, the moodiness a fake. Dear, sweet Funny Frances, who worked too hard and was ever so complicated: What she needed was more love, more affection, more squidges and squeezes. “What could I do?” Frances imagined herself saying to a jury. “My hints were like cruise missiles.” And they’d jointly—sympathetically—nod their heads, explaining, “Some people don’t understand hints, my dear.”
Several beers later, when the flat was looking its most chaotic and horrendous, Elaine clapped her hands together and said, “There! All done!”
Regret was pointless but Frances felt it nonetheless. Now there was nothing left to do but squeeze past the bicycle, step over the tortoise-shaped pouffe, and survey the wreckage. The place looked ransacked; she half expected a burglar to appear from behind the sofa. Elaine clasped her hands to her chest and looked around, sighing. Then, just when Frances thought it couldn’t get any worse, Elaine said, “Shall we go for a run? Or shopping? Get some housey bits together?”
“To put where?” Frances wailed, looking around.
Elaine laughed.
“I can’t run now,” Frances said, holding up the empty beer can.
“Then let’s go out shopping. Come on—it’ll be fun.”
It had all happened so quickly, Frances hadn’t even had time to talk about the rent, and as they stood in the drizzle looking at a stall in Camden, the awful thought dawned on her that Elaine might think she was moving in for free, just for the pleasure of her company. She huddled down inside her anorak, sweltering inside, with a chilly, wet nose. She knew she must rectify the situation immediately, but it was difficult finding the opportunity, what with all the fun they were supposed to be having. Elaine spoke gleefully with the stall holders. She told everyone that they had just moved in together, and Frances stoically suffered the congratulatory smiles and expressions of people who didn’t really care. Whenever she could—whilst Elaine was busy talking—she wandered away a little, hands in pockets, and let the crowds shunt past her, taking strange pleasure from the occasional shoulder-barge.
“Are you having fun?” Elaine said, linking her arm.
“I’m tired,” Frances replied.
Elaine rolled her eyes.
Being tired was an excuse Frances clung to for a variety of reasons. Being tired pardoned lack of enthusiasm, lack of arousal, lack of interest. Initially, Elaine had been concerned. She thought it sounded like a thyroid problem. Frances said she doubted it was. Since then it had become a word Elaine mimicked whenever Frances said it.
“I’m tiiiiiiiiired,” Elaine whined back at her. “I’m Fraaaaaaances and I’m tiiiiiiiiiiiired.”
“Shut up,” she said, and Elaine hugged her, laughing.
Frances was remembering a similar shopping trip—long before she had met Elaine—a day that had been full of genuine fun, when she and her beau had held hands and bought coffee from one of these stalls, sipping from cardboard espresso cups, still giddy with the wine from lunch. The memory seemed tragic and pathetic now as she walked arm-in-arm with this woman who stopped to sniff candles that stank of candyfloss or strawberry, and an old, familiar pain occurred in Frances’ chest, the pain of memory, of what had been and could not be again, the feeling of missing someone, so terribly like disappointment, as if you are repeatedly letting yourself down. When Frances turned her face away from a vial of vile-smelling so-called essential oil, Elaine looked at her and said, “You really are tired, aren’t you? Shall we go and sit down somewhere?” and Frances nodded and allowed herself to be led away. “Come on,” Elaine said. “My poor little Frances.”
The pub was as exuberant as Elaine herself, full of late-afternoon merriment and the voices of many crowds, many couples, many friends, crammed around tables or standing in tight circles, holding the working week at bay with another round. Frances and Elaine found two vacant seats at the bar, removed drenched jackets, and ordered a couple of ales. Frances wondered if Elaine might get drunk enough to pass out before bedtime. She was optimistic. Elaine was clearly in the mood for celebrating.
“I put a bottle of bubbly in the fridge before we came out,” she was saying, “I thought we might have it this evening.”
Small mercies, thought Frances.
Elaine put her hand on Frances’ knee in a way which felt both dominant and adoring, and there it stayed the whole time Elaine sipped her drink, read the menu, ordered crisps. She kept it there as she tore open the packet with her teeth, the way men rip into a condom. The warmth of her palm sank through the denim and seemed to spread itself into bone and skin, creeping its way up Frances’ leg to her groin.
“Elaine, we need to talk about money,” Frances said.
Elaine licked a moustache of foam from her upper lip and said, wide-eyed, with sincerity, “So that’s what’s been bothering you.”
“Yes. Well, yes and no. But, yes, we do need to talk about it.”
“Baby, you should have said. You know you can talk to me about anything.” The hand squeezed, fingertips clawing into the nerve of her inner knee, sending a jolt high into her thigh. “I’ll pay whatever,” Elaine said. “I’m happy to. How much do you need?”
Frances paused then said, “Could you do…two grand? By next Saturday? That’s when the next rent is due.”
She winced inwardly, waiting for some hard questioning, but Elaine just sipped her drink, shrugged, and said, “Yeah, no problem. What about after that? Is it two grand a month you need?”
“Um.” Frances scratched behind her ear. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
“You pay four grand a month for that shitty little flat? No wonder you’re always skint.”
“I’m including bills,” Frances quickly said. “Council tax, electric, gas, insurance. All that.”
“Yeah, no worries. I’ll set up a standing order, that alright?”
Frances frowned. “Is that okay?”
“Of course. I want to pay my way. I’m not a freeloader,” Elaine laughed.
Frances stared at her. She couldn’t believe how easy it had been. She clearly could have said any amount; Elaine didn’t have a clue. Frances had expected this sudden expense to be at least an inconvenience, an adjustment, but Elaine just drank her beer, completely unperturbed, looking slightly bored, if anything. “Your job at the charity must pay better than I thought,” Frances said.
Elaine wafted her hand dismissively and said, “I have lots of money.”
Frances’ eyebrows raised, then settled themselves down, and suddenly she was enjoying her beer. She wanted to probe further, but what did it matter? Betty and her straightening irons vanished from her thoughts. The letter from Dom disappeared. She smiled, felt unburdened, carefree. Elaine hooked her arm round Frances’ neck and pulled her in for a kiss that tasted of cheese and onion. The knee, at liberty, felt an equal sense of relief.
“Feel better now?” Elaine said.
Frances smiled back at her, momentarily full of goodwill and joy, almost—but not quite—loving her.
After several drinks, and in the light of several berry-scented candles, Frances decided the flat looked much better. It has a sort of bohemian artistic beauty, she thought dreamily. Shadows cancelled out many objects and the flickering glow softened others. Sitting on the windowsill, smoking whilst Elaine was in the shower, she was drunk enough to observe it all with detached carefree and careless humour, which actually stemmed from a very real sense of disbelief. But this disbelief—like so many other emotions—was numbed now. Pleasantly, welcomingly, tipsily numbed. And she exhaled out the window, looking down at the evening street, darkened by the rain that had finally moved on, and flicked the ember out on a wide cascade. Then she put the radio on and poured herself another glass of champagne.
She had already messaged Dom. Just two words: sorted. saturday. He hadn’t replied. She felt, as people often do when they have rectified one problem and not yet realised the extent of a new one, rather pleased with herself. That was, until Elaine appeared berobed from the bathroom and took her hand, saying, “Come on.”
“What’s going on?” Frances said.
“The bedroom, silly. Come on.”
Clutching her champagne glass, Frances was walked through the cavern of candlelight to the dark, tousled bed. She stared drunkenly at it, as if she didn’t know what it was. The pillows still bore the dents of their heads. The sheets, all twisted and wrung, looked to Frances like piled limbs. Elaine sat her down on the edge of the mattress. Elaine was not drunk, Frances now realised. Merry, but not drunk. And when she was merry she was also most tireless. She turned to the box by the wall. With her back to Frances, she started rummaging.
Frances finished her drink quickly and put the glass on the floor. When she sat back up again, her head spun, and as her vision settled she was greeted with the sight of Elaine walking towards her, waving a double-ended dildo like a medieval torturer would his implement of choice. “I bought this for us,” Elaine said, “as a treat.”
Frances swallowed and said the only word appropriate to the circumstances: “Fuck.”
Cold water. Blissful handfuls of it, splashed on her face and neck. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, still catching her breath. Her face and body looked red and sordid. The water dripped from her jaw into the sink and she snatched up her toothbrush. Down her right temple was a scratch where Elaine’s fingernail had dug in as she clung there; it was accidental, Frances knew that, but she examined it closely now like it was evidence of abuse. “Don’t move,” Elaine had panted. “Don’t move.” A pointless instruction; Elaine’s hands were massive and muscular, and, clutched between them, Frances’ head was a small and fragile object, like a premature egg.
She dabbed at the wound with a washcloth, then slunk over to the kitchenette, glancing in the bedroom on her way to make sure Elaine was still asleep. She was. She had in fact rather conveniently commenced snoring within moments of finishing, one end of the toy still protruding from her, as if she had died birthing it. Not quite knowing what to do, whether to take it out or leave it in there, Frances had covered Elaine in a sheet up to the shoulders and crept out as quietly as possible. She went to the window for a cigarette. Eyes half-closed, she smoked. On the sideboard stood the empty champagne bottle beside its discarded cork. Frances picked it up and smelled it: a sweet, musky fragrance, retaining the essence, the spirit, of the product. She threw it in the bin. Then she walked to the airing cupboard.
She carried the wooden box to the sofa and sat down, balancing it on her knees. She was still a little drunk; her hands were clumsy and uncertain as they opened it. For a few moments she just looked inside. An entire person lives in here, she thought to herself, like a genie, she lives in here. And she almost said the name, almost whispered it aloud, as if to conjure or release, but she dared not, fearful of failure. She’s in here, but she’s not, she thought. Aladdin was lucky; there’s nothing I can do to free her. Then she reached in and took out the dried cork, held it again to her nose, although she knew no scent remained, and that all taste had long since vanished.
Two years ago they had popped the bottle of cava, calling it champagne, as a joke, pretending, as they often did, to be rich and posh. “Congratulations, dahhhling,” they said to each other. The bottle had been cheap but it didn’t matter; they drank with the unfounded certainty that it was to be the first of many, future celebrations were surely to come, and there would be time, when they were older, for Bollinger and Lanson; for now cava would do nicely. They toasted each other, themselves, their love, and said, smugly but not caring that they were smug, “To us, and our first night together.” Not strictly true—they had spent countless nights together before—but this was different, they said. They lived together now, they were a proper couple. They talked into the night about the future, suggestions and ideas, nothing huge. Plans do not have to be big when your little world is charmingly new. They finished one bottle, then two, then danced around singing Queen until a neighbour complained.
“I’m having such a good time—”
“I’m having a ball.”
Later, Frances sat on the floor with her head on that sweet, beloved knee and listened to the reassurances that they would always be together, that she was adored, that this was them, set, forever. “I love you, my little pet,” were the words she had heard as her head was stroked and her shoulders caressed. They made love on the sofa, sucking warm cava off of each other, laughing at the tickling trickles sliding down each other’s breasts, pinning down wrists and draping fingers across skin. Oftentimes this was enough for them—they didn’t plough and plunder to climax, they preferred to hold back and exist, daily, on a heightened edge, always eager for each other. It was not denial, but, rather, a choice to exist amongst the rolling, charging waves instead of being periodically flung ashore. The next morning, Frances had awoken early and left her slumbering love, curled like a calla lily in their wild bed, as she wandered around the rooms of the flat and looked at how her life had doubled. Two washcloths, two towels, two toothbrushes. Two dips in the sofa, two chocolate wrappers in the bin, two empty glasses on the sideboard. Doubled. Gloriously doubled. Her heart, enormous, twice its normal size. She kissed her love awake and said to her, “I thought my heart was something small and hard like a stone, but now I see it’s a balloon. A big balloon heart.” They made love. It was beautiful and it was the beginning.
And now this. She put the cork back in the box and closed the lid. She did not wish it hadn’t happened, but often—such as now—she wished she had no memory of it. All the drinking and drugging was for this purpose, holding memories far away at bay and making those which arose easier to deal with. Trying to keep the past in the past, always aware that it bleeds into today.
Elaine stirred as Frances slid into bed. She made a small grunting sound and something thudded to the floor. Then she rolled over and flopped an arm over Frances’ tummy, and whispered that she couldn’t feel happier.