The Book of You. Claire Kendal
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dead.
At least I know she’s safe. At least you’ve pulled back from her as I predicted. You’ve got what you wanted. You’ve got as much of me as she can give you.
I tear open your envelope. In it is a ticket to the ballet. Tonight’s performance. And a letter.
You must be stressed, Clarissa. I know you don’t mean to treat me unkindly. You can’t have meant the cruel things you said. I only want to make you happy. I wanted last night to be special for you, reuniting you with your friend, but I can see I misjudged it. I promise never to see Rowena again. Please let me make it up to you by taking you out. On your own. Just the two of us. I’m all yours. No gooseberry. I know you’ll love the Prokofiev Cinderella. We share so much, Clarissa. Meet me in the foyer at 7. Don’t forget your ticket! We’ll have a drink first. And a late dinner after.
Love, Rafe.
I hardly know where to begin to rip apart the madness of your letter. Do you not hear the things I say to you – no, no, and no – again and again? I think you must not take it in; you’re in the grip of a crazed kind of shifting reasoning, even a terrifying sincerity.
Did you rifle through my CDs and DVDs when you were in my flat? Because you are right, guessing how I adore that ballet. But you can’t imagine how I’d hate it with you. From a different man the gesture might have been sweet. It might have been romantic. But not from you. The man who exploited my oldest friend and turned her against me. From you this ticket is an assault, not a gift. Surely you must know, deep down, that you won’t be sitting next to me in the theatre tonight?
But I can’t shake my dread of what you will do when the curtain rises and I’m not there. I can’t help picturing you standing on the tiled floor, watching yourself in the elaborate gilt mirror, waiting, angry and upset when I don’t turn up, the man behind the ticket collection counter noticing you, guessing you’ve been stood up.
You were a baby once. What could have happened to you, to make you like this?
‘Are you able to continue this morning, Miss Lockyer?’ Mr Morden looked sad and concerned. His voice was soft and gentlemanly.
The defendants all gazed ahead, their faces blank, sitting very still in their shiny wooden box, on chairs that were covered in the same royal blue woven upholstery as the jurors’ and barristers’. It was all very blue, but for the judge’s deep brown leather.
‘I’m okay. Thank you.’ She spoke as if the conversation were just between the two of them. Clarissa saw then that her voice could be pretty, in different circumstances.
‘I know yesterday was very difficult for you.’
Miss Lockyer’s hair was in two low ponytails, like a little girl’s. She tugged at one of them.
‘Can you please tell the jury what happened next?’
Her voice was decided and unashamed. ‘I went back into the bedroom. I know it might seem strange that I got back into bed with the two men who’d just raped me, but I thought if I didn’t they’d come and look for me and that would be worse. I huddled in the corner of the bed, in a kind of ball, hugging myself. You just can’t imagine how cold that flat was. Their weight was on the duvet, so I could only pull a bit of it over me. I was scared if I tugged at it too much they’d wake. I dozed, I was that tired, but I kept jerking out of sleep. Then it was morning and Sparkle came and stood in the doorway and signalled for me to follow him into the lounge.’
Tuesday, 11 November, 9.00 a.m. (Three Months Ago)
It is the morning after your book launch party. I fight my way out of a nightmare, thrashing to get free of a very dark place. I am in my own bed, lying on my side, my back to you. You are pressing the front of your body into me, spooning me, and I can feel your erection. Your hand is over my breast, stuck to it like a suction cup. You are kissing the nape of my neck and whispering that you’ve been watching me dream. You are holding me so tight I have to struggle hard to wriggle out of your arms and snatch my dress from the floor to cover myself as I rush into the bathroom to be sick. When I’m finished, grabbing the sink to balance, I look down at my body. Spots of blood have dried on the insides of my thighs, where there are red marks that I don’t want to think about. They will turn into bruises the next day. My lips and wrists and ankles are chafed. My hair is matted and tangled. My eyes hurt too much. I turn the lights off. I stand beneath the hot shower in the dark, shampooing my hair and soaping every inch of my skin. It stings, when I wash between my legs. I brush and floss my teeth. My jaw aches. The last thing I can recall is your taking my dress off. After that, there is only blackness. The bathroom door is locked behind me. I ignore your repeated knocks and concerned questions from outside. Late that afternoon I need an emergency appointment at the doctor’s to get antibiotics for a bladder infection. I am ill for three days, after: I have a pounding headache that just won’t go; I vomit and vomit until there is nothing left but bile; I sleep and sleep. No matter how much I sleep, I cannot wake up.
Miss Lockyer began to pant. Abruptly, dramatically, her skin paled. It was easy to see this in the clear light pouring through Court 12’s domed glass ceiling and the row of windows on the wall behind Clarissa – the only windows in the room and far too high to look out of. It could have been a ballroom. Maybe it was, long ago.
‘I need a break. I’m sorry. I need a break.’ Miss Lockyer covered her face.
They were sitting in the small, windowless waiting room just outside Court 12.
‘She’s not coming back,’ Annie said.
Clarissa said softly, ‘I’m sure she’ll be back.’
Annie rolled her deceptively gentle brown eyes and swung her shiny black hair and puffed her apple blossom cheeks. Beneath the artificial lights, her creamy skin was faintly yellow.
‘You’re probably right,’ Clarissa said quickly. ‘You watch all the time. I write too much. I take too many notes. I’m probably missing something by not looking.’
Annie’s face was cherubic and heart-shaped. Her angelic features seemed to relax a bit. She tapped her sweet little chin several times with her index finger. ‘What did she think was going to happen, stealing those drugs from them?’
Clarissa pulled out a Japanese pattern book. There was a nightdress with a crossover bodice she loved the look of – she had some silk the colour of a bruise that she’d use. She’d make two, and send one of them to Rowena once she’d managed to get Rafe safely out of her life.
‘My wife used to sew.’
The owner of that voice must have noticed what she was looking at. Her face reddened as she hurriedly shut the book. In the chair opposite was the tall man who sat in front of her in the jury box. She liked his dark brown hair, so short it made her wonder if he was in the military; she’d spent a lot of time over the last two days with that hair in her view; she thought it would feel bristly.
‘Does she not any more?’ she said.
His jaw – strong and square and so unlike Henry’s – stiffened almost imperceptibly. She had the impression that he was considering what to tell her, though his pause probably seemed longer than it actually was. ‘She died. Two years ago.’
‘Oh – I’m so sorry.’
His name was Robert. She told him her own name as the door into Court 12 opened and the usher invited them back in. She stood and lined up with the others, but Robert’s voice soon made her turn around.
‘You left this on your chair.’ He was holding out the Japanese pattern book. The nightdress she’d been studying – very pretty, but a little revealing – was featured on the cover, hanging against a wooden wardrobe. The picture was covered by his large hand.
She bit her lip slightly and shook her head in ironic embarrassment, surprised at the same time to find herself noticing how symmetrical his lips were, and that they