Kylie
My stomach cramps, spasms of acute hunger cause me to crawl into the corner of the room. I pull my knees up, tight to my body, trying to flatten out the cravings. I think he has decided to let me starve to death. My head swims. I fall to sleep, for just moments, and then jerk awake. Or maybe it’s longer. I don’t know. Both men are waiting for me in my dreams, my nightmares. The two men are completely unalike. Almost nothing in common. Other than me, I suppose. Yet they are both waiting for me. Furious.
The water is all gone.
Having two husbands, two lives, is very time-consuming. Something had to give. I chose to sacrifice friendship. I took Daan’s phone calls before friends’. If he suggested we meet on a date where I was already tied up, I pulled out of the prior arrangements. The lovely women I met at work—who I had joked with in the staff canteen, swore with when bosses were unreasonable—all fell by the wayside. As did my mummy-friends, the mothers of the boys’ friends. I turned down invitations to join book clubs or spend the evening with someone enthusiastically selling beauty products or kitchen utensils. The only friend I could not give up was Fiona. She has always been like a sister to me. The thought of her comforts me but in some ways hurts me too. I lost her anyhow because I couldn’t tell her. Of course not. So the honesty and intimacy between us faded and then disappeared altogether.
There is nothing honest about a second bank account, about a second phone. It’s complicated. Strangely, it wasn’t the things I kept apart that stung—the separate things were a shield—it was the crossovers that were painful. The near misses fling themselves into the front of my awareness now. They itch uncomfortably around my wrist where I’m chained; they sit in my parched throat. I can’t swallow them back.
I recall walking down the street, Kai walks with an arresting fluidity. She rolls, languidly, like a cat. Leigh bounces, much more of a puppy. This me, is bounding. So I am Leigh, heading toward Mark, Oli and Seb, keen to rest my eyes on them, to feel the boys roughly bury into me as they hug me hello. There is a supermarket trolley lying across the pavement. I bend to stand it up and park it to the side so that it doesn’t obstruct those with strollers or in wheelchairs. That is when I notice it, the bracelet glinting against my skin. Relieved I’ve spotted it, I slip it off. Not that Mark would guess they were real diamonds, he’d imagine I’d splashed out at Swarovski at best, more likely Accessorize. I slide £4,000 worth of jewelry into my handbag. Noting that I should take more care. I slip in and out of consciousness; in my dreams, my nightmares, I’m chained by a row of diamonds.
My head throbs as I recall an especially busy week when I took clothes from both my wardrobes to the same drycleaners and then had them delivered to the penthouse for ease. I didn’t think an extra dress and suit would be noticed; I planned to take them back to my home with Mark on Thursday. But Daan did spot the dress Leigh had worn to Mark’s parents’ wedding anniversary lunch. “That’s very fashionable,” he commented. I knew it was a criticism. He is not fashionable and doesn’t aspire to be. He is classic. He liked me to be classic too. Classy. I didn’t take offense. I was simply relieved he hadn’t seen Mark’s suit from Next.
I suppose there is only so long you can choke back a secret like this. Bliss like this. Pain and stupidity on this monumental scale will out.
I sacrificed myself. I wasn’t twice as interesting or busy or complete. I was half the person. In my dreams I hear the typewriter hammer out another note. The paper is slipped under the door.
Too late for regrets.
Then there is another, it flies around the room.
Too late for explanations.
And then a third. A flock of paper birds swoop and swarm, surrounding me. Pecking at my hair, my head, my eyes. I manage to read one or two of the messages.
Too late for excuses.
Too late.
And I close my eyes because he is right. It is too late for me. I do not know how to be or who to be. I’m no longer the woman I was or even the woman either of them thought I was. I’m no longer anyone. It will be easier if I allow myself to slip into unconsciousness. It will be easier if I let go.