Addiction:
When he returned to the bedroom, she was lying on the bed haphazardly: one knee jutting over the edge of the bed, her arm dangling loose, fingers brushing the carpet. Sensing his presence, she opened her eyes, wiped away the mascara crusts, and grinned, appreciating the bulge in his stone-ground shorts. The time for intimacy was over. Today, she would break his heart. Maybe tell him at the end? First, though, she had to deal with life’s little practicalities,
‘Could you pass me a tissue?’ she said, her pale cheeks coloured by a healthy blush.
He couldn’t stop looking at her. She looked radiant, bathed in the morning sun. In the space of thirty-six hours, his love for her had turned into an addiction. He was dependent.
For a moment, she was at sixes and sevens as to what to say; he looked so pensive. She reached for his medallion, drawing him in to her, as if he were her puppy-dog on a lead,
‘Come here,’ she said, running her soft fingertips down his face, ‘You’re lovely and soft.’
He looked manly dressed in his tight-fitting shorts, medallion strung down his hairy chest. His face was smooth, velvet. She held his face in her hands and kissed him. He broke into a broad smile. He loved her when she behaved like this. She was his paradise,
‘I shaved for you,’ he said.
‘Like I shaved for you, last night.’
They burst out laughing, the ice had been broken.
‘Yes! Like that!’
‘You smell great.’
‘It’s the smell of Brut,’ he declared, ‘I made you breakfast. Think you should eat before it gets cold?’
‘Oh, how lovely! What a treat!’
‘Now let’s sit you up, shall we?’
He pulled her body forward, fluffing the pillows behind her, sitting her up straight, his floppy rag doll. She loved being fussed over, breakfast in bed on a sunny Sunday morning. What a wonderful surprise. He drew back the curtains. There were no nets. The whole street could see them.
Let them see us, he told himself, let the world see our love, let the world see my woman.
A tiny voice:
‘Hello?’
‘Yes?’
‘You were going to fetch me breakfast?’
‘Oh, yes.’
He scurried off to the landing while Georgie made herself comfortable, returning seconds later with what looked to her like a giant bean bag with a board on top. She asked him,
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a lap-tray.’
He set the tray down on her lap. There was bacon, omelette, buttered toast cut in quarters, a knife, fork, salt pot, pepper pot, tissue to wipe her mouth with, no drink. Still, the whole array looked most appetizing, even professional. Georgie was famished. She tucked in,
‘This tastes delicious,’ she observed, chomping away at the omelette, ‘What is it?’
‘It’s wild mushroom. I pick them in the local woods. I’ll take you there if you like. I’ve left the bath for you. I thought we could go for a walk to Ifield Mill. It’s beautiful at this time of the year. Then we could follow the river as far as the woods. I could show you where I pick mushrooms. I thought you might like to see the church, share a ploughman’s lunch in the White Hart. You’ll love the pub, it’s got white-washed walls, old men playing darts, we can sit outside, if you’d rather…’
He studied her face which had started to soften like warm pulled plasticine. To be on the safe side, he had decided to soak the mushrooms in his special concoction. The liquor would, he was certain, have been diluted during the cooking process. There was no point in harming her. He didn’t want to hurt her in any way. He loved her, unlike the girl – he didn’t love her. He noticed she had finished her omelette already, and started on the toast,
That’s right! Eat it all up! There’s a good girl!
Georgie was having difficulty chewing the toast, difficulty speaking for that matter. She felt her mouth swell, had to chew hard to masticate, to digest the toast, struggled to talk,
‘Had enough now, thank you. Enough now.’
She had trouble focusing. Even his face was blurred. Nice blur though, dreamy, blur…
He watched her slump onto the bed, her face flushed and bloated. He took the lap-tray off her. No point in spilling toast crumbs on his parent’s bed.
Georgie felt her brain fill and swell like a sodden sponge,
‘Will it hurt?’ she mumbled.
‘No,’ he promised, ‘It won’t hurt.’
Hallucinations:
She wasn’t frightened. Even as her lips swelled up, she trusted him, believed in him. After all he loved her with all his heart, didn’t he? Surely, he wouldn’t let her come to any harm. An aura of subdued light formed round his head, a halo effect. She felt confused. Felt his body join hers on the bed, a strong arm round her midriff pulling her into him, supporting her. The tender grip of strong fingers in her hair, holding her by the nape, pressing her face to his shoulder. Georgie felt safe, secure. Her mind exploded into natural colour. She closed her eyes, the hallucinations began.
She was lying naked, spread-eagled on a woollen blanket under him, staring at the midday sun through gaps in the gently swaying trees. The trees undulated, moving in a lime green swathe on a sweet summer breeze, the tranquil, soothing lull of birdsong. Her mood went to perceived formality: mind full, white background noise, staff serving, blurred images, tables. She focused her mind’s eye on a feast set before her: strawberries, cream, fizzing saucers, champagne, a mother, presiding over her tastes. Except, this mum wasn’t cruel, dowdy, heartless. This mum loved her child. Georgie felt herself reach out and touch her hand, almost felt the diamond on her ring finger.
Then she was with him, laughing, happier beyond words, rolling in hay, helping her daddy dip endless fluffy droves of sheep. His muffled voice,
‘That’ll put hairs on your chest, Georgie, swimming in the dip!’
The dream went surreal: swimming wild in woodland, carpets of red and white toadstools. Dewponds, interspersed by hazels, birch, weeping willows, far as she could see, far as her bedraggled brain could take. Standing on a grassy bank, holding hands with god-knows-who, deciding when to take a leap of faith. Psychedelic dewponds, crazy artists’ palettes, pastel shades: pear, avocado, kiwi, lemon, mango, peach.
Georgie jolted.
He felt her jolt, holding her hand tightly, she leapt…
Into dark olive waters. From which she surmised there could be no return. She heard her inner self, felt her body, suspend, float, in water, tiny, nude, foetal, baby, tethered by her umbilical cord. Her baby turned, inverted in womb, head down, eyes shut, shoulders back,
Brace yourself, Georgie, brace yourself, girl!
One, almighty push! She shot out of the womb, a rocket in a bottle set free, body, mind, soul reborn. She felt herself, slop out on her mummy’s tummy, a slimy, bloodied mess of a kid, suckling on her mother’s nipple. Her sticky eyelids peered open for the first time. She found herself in the real world, a survivor, cradled in her rescuer’s arms, breathless, speechless, a child once more.
Confession:
He held her in his arms, rubbing her back, stroking her thin hair, while the swelling in her throat, mouth, lips subsided. These were the moments he enjoyed most: the tender, loving, intimate moments when she needed him to care for her. He felt her hands wander over his hips, lips kiss his shoulder, as she came back to life. When he lay her to rest, he noticed her cheeks were damp from crying, she was blushing, her eyes were all shiny, and bright,
‘That was the most wonderful time of my life,’ she said in a small child’s voice.
He brushed a wet wisp of hair off her face, kissing her forehead, relieved: she hadn’t gone into coma,
‘I’m thrilled for you,’ he said, ‘Do you remember how you felt?’
She couldn’t wait to tell him, ‘I felt as if I was floating in dreamy land.’
He looked at her, puzzled, ‘Dreamy land?’
‘Mm, the Land of Nod!’ she laughed, impishly, ‘I dreamed I was lying on a blanket in a wood staring at a cloudless blue sky through gaps in treetops. You were inside my body,’ she lowered her voice, not wanting anyone else to hear, ‘My mind. The ground was all covered in toadstools.’
He recalled the time he saw the couple on a blanket in Ifield Woods; they were shrouded in toadstools, too,
‘What happened next?’
‘I found myself having tea with a woman in a hotel or restaurant. Can’t be sure which.’
‘Somewhere like The Ritz, you mean?’
‘Yes!’ she said brightly, ‘That’s right. Strange thing is, she was kind, loving towards me. Wasn’t like that in real life. If I tell you, what she did to me, will you promise not to tell?’
‘I promise not to tell anyone,’ he assured her.
Georgie started to cry,
‘She abused me, brutally, if I did any wrong, or spoke out of turn. My mother believed I should lead a chaste life. Rachael used her punishments to keep me under control, always when dad was busy: shearing, dipping the sheep. Things got worse after he died. She beat me for no reason, locked me in a cupboard under the stairs, washed my mouth with soap and water. Once, she even fed me dirt.’
The blood drained out of his face, ‘How could she be so cruel to you, her own daughter? What did you do?’
‘When I was sixteen, I mustered up the courage to fight back, confronted her, told her I’d report her to our church, police, a local rag, anyone to stop her hurting me. She changed, threatened to send me to a convent to keep me quiet. I told her where to go. We made an agreement. Can you believe that? She made me sign a legal document forbidding me from revealing the truth. In return I receive a monthly allowance.’
‘She pays you to keep your mouth shut?’
‘You could say that.’
Neither of them spoke.
They lay in each other’s arms consoling each other.
Two lost souls.
