The Book of You. Claire Kendal
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you help me to my feet. You don’t release my hand. Gently, I pull it away. ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t you have a dinner to go to, Professor?’
‘I’m not a professor.’ There is a quiver in your eyelid. It vibrates several times, quickly, in succession, as if a tiny insect is hiding inside. ‘Henry got it, the year I applied. Not much chance against a prize-winning poet. Being Head of Department didn’t hurt him, either.’
Henry had more than deserved the professorship, but of course I don’t say this. What I say is, ‘I’m sorry.’ After a few embarrassing seconds of silence, I say, ‘I need to get home.’ You look so crushed I want to comfort you. ‘It’s a really interesting book, Rafe.’ I try to soften my impending exit. ‘You should be proud.’
You retrieve the wine and offer me a glass. ‘A toast, Clarissa. Before you go.’
‘To your beautiful book.’ I clink my white to your red and take a sip. You look so pleased by this small thing; it touches and saddens me. I will replay this moment too many times over the next few months, much as I would like to shut it out.
‘Drink up.’ You gulp down your own, as if to demonstrate.
And I follow your example, though it tastes like salty sweet medicine. But I don’t want to dim your already lacklustre celebration.
‘Let me walk with you, Clarissa. I’d rather walk with you than go to some stuffy dinner.’
A minute later we are out in the chill late-autumn air. Even in my wine-fuelled light-headedness I hesitate before what I say next. ‘Do you ever think about Bluebeard’s first wife? She isn’t specifically mentioned, but she must be one of the dead women hanging in the forbidden chamber.’
You smile tolerantly, as if I am one of your students. You are dressed like a preppy American professor – not your usual look. Tweedy blazer, soft brown corduroy trousers, a finely striped blue-and-white shirt, a sleeveless navy sweater. ‘Explain.’ You shoot out the word peremptorily, the way you must do it in English Literature seminars.
‘Well, if there was a secret room right at the beginning, and he commanded the very first Mrs Bluebeard not to enter it, there wouldn’t have been any murdered wives in there yet. There wouldn’t have been the stream of blood for her to drop the key into, and no stain on it to give her away. So what reason did he think he had for killing the first time? That’s always puzzled me.’
‘Maybe he didn’t invent the room until wife number two. Maybe wife number one did something even more unforgivable than going into the room. The worst form of disobedience: maybe she was unfaithful, like the first wife in the Arabian Nights, and that’s why he killed her. Then he needed to test each of the others, after, to see if she was worthy. Except not a single one was.’ You say all of this lightly, jokingly.
I should have seen, then, that you don’t joke. You are never light. If I hadn’t accepted the third glass of wine I might have seen that and averted everything that followed.
‘You sound like you think she deserved it.’
‘Of course I don’t.’ You speak too quickly, too insistently, a sign that you’re lying. ‘Of course I don’t think that.’
‘But you used the word disobedience.’ Am I only imagining that I’m beginning to wobble? ‘That’s a horrifying word. And it was never a fair promise. You can’t ask somebody never to enter a room that’s part of her own house.’
‘Men need secret places, Clarissa.’
‘Do they?’ We’ve reached Bath Abbey. The building’s west front is illuminated, but I can’t seem to focus on my favourite fallen angels, sculpted upside down on Jacob’s Ladder. The vertigo I’m beginning to feel must be like theirs, with the world up-ended.
You take my arm. ‘Clarissa?’ You wave a hand in front of my eyes, smiling. ‘Wake up, sleepyhead.’
That helps me to remember the point I’m trying to make, though I have to concentrate extra hard to form sentences. ‘There must have been some truly dreadful secrets in that room. It was a place for his fantasies, where he made them real.’
We’re passing the Roman Baths. I imagine the statues of the emperors and governors and military leaders frowning down at me from their high terrace, willing me to drown in the great green pool below them. My mouth tastes of sulphur, like the spa water from the Pump Room’s fountain.
‘You’re better on “Blue Beard” than any critic, Clarissa. You should be the professor. You should have finished that PhD.’
I shake my head to deny this. Even after my head stops moving, the world continues to waver from side to side. I hardly ever tell anyone about the abandoned PhD. I wonder vaguely how you know, but halt abruptly, distracted by a ring in a shop window. It is a twist of platinum twinkling with diamonds. It is the ring I dreamed Henry would one day surprise me with, but he never did. Moving lights glitter and flash inside the gems like bright sun on blue sea. White and gold fairy bulbs rim the window, dazzling me.
You pull me away from the glass and I blink as if you’ve woken me. By the time we’ve passed the closed shops in their deep gold Georgian buildings, my steps are no longer straight. Your arm is around my waist, aiming me in the right direction.
I hardly remember going through the subway, but already we are climbing the steep hill and I am breathless. You are holding me close, pushing or pulling me, half-carrying me. Flashes from the diamonds and fairy lights come back, tiny dots before my eyes. How is it that we are already at the door of the old house whose upper floor is mine?
I sway gently, like a funny rag doll. Blood rushes into my head. You help me find my keys, help me up the stairs to the second floor, help me to put two more keys into the locks of my own front door. I stand there, dizzily, not knowing what to do next.
‘Aren’t you going to invite me in for a coffee?’
It can’t fail to work, your manipulative little call to my politeness. I think of idiot-eyed Snow White opening the door to the wicked queen and practically grabbing the poisoned apple out of her hands. I think of Jonathan Harker crossing Dracula’s threshold freely and of his own will. I think again of Bluebeard and his bloody chamber. Did he carry each new bride over the threshold and into his castle after she’d leapt happily into his arms? After that came the room of torture she never imagined.
I try to smile but my face seems not to move as it should. ‘Of course. Of course I am. You must come in for a coffee and warm up while I call you a taxi. It was so sweet of you to walk me home on your special night.’ I’m jabbering. I know I’m jabbering.
I stand in front of the sink, letting water run into the kettle. ‘I’m sorry.’ My words sound smudgy, as if spoken in a language I barely know. ‘My head is feeling funny.’
It is such an effort to stand up. I feel like a spinning top. Or is it the room that is revolving? My body seems to be made of liquid. I float down, my legs folding with such pleasing neatness, until I find myself sitting on the slate tiles of my galley kitchen. The kettle is still in my hands, sloshing water from its spout. ‘I’m very thirsty.’ Though the water is splashing onto my dress, I can’t imagine how to get any of it into my mouth.
You find a glass and fill it. You kneel beside me, feeding the water to me as if I’m a child drinking from a sippy cup. You wipe a drop from my chin with your index finger and then put it to your lips. My own hands still clutch the kettle.
You rise again to set the glass down and turn off the tap. You lean over to take the kettle from me. ‘It hurts me to think you don’t trust me.’ I can feel your breath in my hair as you speak.
You pull me to my feet, supporting my weight. My legs are barely working as you move me towards the bedroom. You sit me at the edge of the bed and crouch in front of me, leaning me into you to stop me from falling over. I can’t keep my back straight. I am weeping.
‘Don’t,’