Ralph arrived home to find his house full of Leonard Cohen. How unusual—someone was playing some of his music. He made his way from room to room, bumping into no one. Was this his birthday present? An empty house and ‘A Thousand Kisses Deep’? If so, he liked it. It was the perfect gift.
He went to the bathroom and took a shower. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he walked into the bedroom to find that Sadie had emptied the entire contents of her wardrobe onto the bed. She was standing by the window, wearing a red bikini.
“Hello gorgeous,” she said.
“Hello.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. What’s going on in here?”
“I have one word for you darling, and it’s Turkey.”
“Turkey?”
“We should go to Turkey. What do you think? I’m just making sure I can still fit into my bikini.”
Ralph imagined spending an entire week on a beach with Sadie. He sat on the bed. He felt exhausted. He wondered if he might be deficient in something, missing an essential vitamin, a vitamin that other people had plenty of. Vitamin D perhaps? He never used to feel this tired when he worked outside all day.
“I think Turkey would be fabulous,” Sadie said, joining him on the bed. “And we could invite Kristin and Carol. What do you think?”
“Why would we invite them?”
“They’re our friends.”
“I’m sure they’d rather go away on their own. Carol’s under huge pressure at work. She’s—”
Sadie was belly dancing in front of him. “She’s what, darling?”
“She’s under a lot of pressure,” he said, standing up.
Still dancing, she edged closer until her breasts were against his chest. “You like her, don’t you?” she said, kissing his neck.
“You know I’ve always liked her.”
“Yes, but I think you like her.”
“I’ve never liked her in that way.”
“Oh come on, Ralphy, I’ve seen the way you look at her.”
Then she was pulling him down onto the bed, his towel was on the floor, she was running her fingers through his wet hair, he was untying her bikini.
Afterwards, Sadie sat up against the pillows and grabbed her iPhone from the bedside table.
“What are you doing?” Ralph said.
“Just checking my messages.”
“Since when does checking them involve typing?”
“I’m tweeting.”
“Let me see.”
“Why?”
“I want to know what you’re writing.”
Sadie Swoon @SadieLPeterson
Turkey here I come!
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“What you share with the world is none of my business?”
“Don’t be silly, Ralph.”
“I’m not being silly.”
“It’s only a quick tweet, you can read it later.”
He tried to snatch the phone from her hand. “Give me that fucking thing.”
“Get off me, will you? You’re hurting my arm.”
A tangle of damp limbs, writhing on the bed.
He pounced, pinning her down, reaching for the phone as it fell to the ground.
She wriggled free, hung off the bed, landed on the floor, crawled along the carpet.
He jumped to his feet as she clambered up, holding her phone, lifting it above her head, defiant. Then they were off again, lunging and wrestling.
“You’ve lost it,” she said, holding the phone behind her back. “You’ve really fucking lost it.”
“Give me that bloody phone.”
“I’d rather die than give you this phone.”
“Oh really?”
“You’re an arsehole.”
“I’m what?”
“I said you’re an arsehole.”
“Well you’re a fucking joke, Sadie.”
He grabbed her left wrist, reached around her for the phone, pushed himself against her. They landed against the wall, her right arm still behind her back. She screamed until he let go and stumbled backwards.
“You bastard,” she said, covering her eye with her hand.
“I didn’t hit you.”
“You bloody well did.”
His shoulder had slammed into her face, just below her right eye. He tried to touch her, to see what he had done.
“Get off me.”
“Sadie, it was an accident.”
“An accident? You attacked me to get my phone.”
“For God’s sake, I didn’t attack you.”
“You tried to mug me.”
“You’re being hysterical. Let me see.”
“Just back off. I should call the police. I should tell them you raped me. How does that sound, darling? How’s that for a joke? Happy fucking birthday.”
His body recoiled. Internal damage. Invisible.
“Mum?” It was Arthur’s voice.
Sadie grabbed her dressing gown. Ralph snatched his towel off the bed and wrapped it around his waist. Arthur stared. He was wearing shorts and a pale-blue T-shirt with Keep Calm and Carry On across the front. Ralph hated that T-shirt. He hated the tea towels, mugs, posters, aprons, cufflinks and bags. What did people derive from the mass reproduction of government posters, designed to boost morale during the Second World War if Britain was invaded? How could that notion be uplifting? He didn’t get it. He had seen a baby in a pram wearing a Keep Calm and Carry On T-shirt last week. The baby was screaming. Last month, a client who had never been able to express his anger bought him a Keep Calm and Carry On postcard for his consulting room, and when Ralph refused to put it on the mantelpiece, explaining that it encouraged repression, the client shouted so loudly that the counsellor working in the next room had to thump on the wall and yell KEEP IT DOWN.
The rapid musings of a nanosecond, then Ralph’s thoughts slumped back onto his wife. Could she feel them? Flabby indecipherable weights.
“I’m glad you’re home,” she said. “Can you go and mow the lawn?”
“What the hell’s going on?” Arthur said, his hands deep in his pockets.
“Nothing’s going on. The lawn really needs mowing before the party.”
“Are you all right? What’s wrong with your eye?”
“A little mishap.”
“Mishap?”
In Ralph’s mind, a swarm of broken sentences. The swarm split. It split again. He was ragged and torn, he was subdivided. Hate buzzed through him. Regret rose and fell in pathetic bursts. Not real regret—not the stuff that makes amends.
Sadie’s words were still in the room.
We should go to Turkey.
I should tell them you raped me.
Happy fucking birthday.
If they gave out awards for denial, Sadie would win every year. She was an expert, a pro. This domestic song and dance—look at my bikini, let’s go to Turkey, I think you like Carol—was a deflection.
Last week, Sadie and Kristin went to a reading at Mack’s, their local bookshop. The author was Rosanna Arquette, a poet. Much to the audience’s disappointment, this particular Rosanna Arquette was not the woman who played Roberta in Desperately Seeking Susan, but this was soon forgotten. The poetry was dark, graphic, erotic. It was full of love that felt like pain and pain that felt like love. Rosanna spoke of bedposts, bruises and handcuffs. Clearly something had happened to this poet since her previous three collections, which were about nature, global warming and the Lake District.
Rows of small wooden chairs were packed tightly into alcoves. The windows were steamed up. Every complimentary glass of wine was empty. Wood creaked as people shifted position in their chairs, trying not to make a sound. Chris Preston, who owned the shop, wished he hadn’t sat beside Rosanna with every member of the audience facing him, looking him up and down for signs of arousal. Throughout the whole reading, he tried to think of nothing but his dead mother.
At the back of the crime section, Sadie resisted all attempts to stop breathing heavily. She closed her eyes and listened. She let the words take her. She gave in. Without thinking, she moved her leg so that it was touching Kristin’s. With her eyes still closed, and while Rosanna spoke of surrender and submission, she felt Kristin’s leg push back against hers. Then they were both pushing and something had changed, something had shot through them, and Sadie pushed so hard that Kristin’s left leg jutted into a shelf of Ruth Rendell paperbacks, knocking over a display copy of Tigerlily’s Orchids.
She opened her eyes.
It was over.
“Sadie Swoon, we are pleased to announce that you have won the annual Woman In Denial award for the sixteenth year running! How do you feel about that?”
“I have no idea what you’re saying but have you ever been to Turkey? I hear it’s lovely. Would you like to see me belly dance in my bikini?”