Between You and Me (19 page)

‘Fuck, Sal, are you OK? God, no, stupid question. Here …’ She rolls my sleeve right up out of the way to avoid it getting soaked. I hiss between my teeth as the cold water runs over the burn.

‘Keep it there. I know it hurts, but you must keep it there. It’ll help, I promise.’ Laura’s voice is calm and soothing, and I remember how she used to be a nurse, before Lucy and Fred, before Jed left her a single mother with no support and no way of going back to work. I smile shakily at her, and reach my good hand under the stream of water, reaching back to splash it over my hot face. Laura hands me a clean tea towel and when I fumble and drop it, my hands still shaking with shock, she picks it up and gently wipes my face.

‘Thank you.’ I don’t know what else to say to her. I’m in pain and feeling sick, my stomach turning over and over. I am embarrassed that she has witnessed your true nature. Stumble or not, I am sure you meant for the hot tea to hit my arm. Laura smiles in response, but doesn’t speak, and after a little while has passed she tells me I can remove my arm from the cold water.

‘You should really get this looked at, Sal. By a proper doctor.’

‘
No.
Laura, please, I don’t want to see a doctor or go to hospital. It’s just a little burn.’ We both look down at my arm, at the red, blistered skin. It’s not just a little burn, it’s a bloody big one, but I really don’t want to go to hospital and have to answer any questions. It’ll only make you angrier, if nothing else. Laura gives a slight shake of her head, but doesn’t argue.

‘Well, have you got a first-aid box? I’ve got one next door – Jed’s mum is there to see the kids. I can run back and get it, if not.’

‘There’s one up there.’ I point to the very top cupboard next to the oven – it came in the back of the new car when we picked it up, and so far we haven’t had to use it. Laura reaches up and grabs it, and begins searching through for gauze and bandages.

‘Sal, we have to talk about this.’ She doesn’t look at me, but carries on digging through the packets, searching for everything she needs to dress my arm.

‘There’s nothing to talk about, Laur. It was an accident, that’s all. Charlie tripped.’

‘I’m not stupid, Sal. I saw the whole thing. I was coming over to give you this.’ She leans down and picks up the little carrier bag containing Maggie’s new
Frozen
top. ‘Mags left it in my car. I thought she might want it.’

‘It’s not how it looked, Laura. Charlie can’t help it … it was my fault,’ I stutter, trying to explain it away as nothing; but looking into Laura’s clear, green eyes, I know I’m fooling nobody.

‘Sal. I saw everything with my own eyes, and I’ve not told you this before but I’ve been in your situation. Before Jed, there was a guy. We went out for a while, but he seemed to get more and more controlling the longer we were together. He didn’t want me to see any of my friends; he decided what I would wear, where I would go. Then one day, he hit me. I left immediately, never went back. It took me a long time to get over it but, Sal, there are people out there who can help you.’ She looks at me steadily, as she smooths antiseptic cream onto the burn on my arm.

‘It’s not that simple, Laura. I know you think you understand, but you really don’t. Charlie doesn’t beat me or anything; it’s not like that. It was just a misunderstanding today. I did something stupid and Charlie got a bit cross and tripped. That’s all.’ If I say it enough times maybe Laura will believe me, but I still can’t bring myself to meet her gaze.

‘What about your fingers, Sal? A couple of weeks ago, when your hand was bandaged up – what happened then? Did Charlie do that to you as well?’

‘No. Of course not. I told you at the time that I caught my hand in the door; it slammed shut and took my fingers with it. Don’t see things that aren’t there, Laura.’ Laura gently places the gauze on the burn and begins to wind the bandage around to secure it.

‘OK, Sal. Have it your way.’

I know she doesn’t believe me, but who else is going to believe the truth? I tried before, to get help, to tell someone, and it was a disaster. I’d made friends with a woman at the baby group I went to after Maggie was born. We got friendly with her and her husband, like you do when you have a new baby, taking it in turns to host dinners at each other’s homes. You actually quite liked her, and I was ‘allowed’ to see her, but only when you were around. One day, after a particularly vicious row, she popped over unannounced while you were at work. You had let me have it, both barrels, before you left that morning and I was struggling. At the time you liked a good punch to the kidneys to make me uncomfortable for the whole day and that day I was in a lot of pain. Sian, the woman I had befriended, came over and noticed that I was awkward and stiff in my movements. I don’t know what came over me, but I told her everything. I’ll never forget the look on her face when she heard what I had to say. She looked at me as though I was weak, a liar; as though I was making things up as an excuse to seek attention. She looked at me the way you look at me. It turned out she was friendlier with you than I had realised, and she told you everything, clearly of the mind that I didn’t deserve any loyalty from her, that I was lying about it all. You made sure, after that, that I never felt the urge to tell anyone again – the consequences too much to make it worth it – and I never felt able to trust anyone again, not with this.

Laura gets up, and pours us both a glass of wine. ‘I am here, though, Sal, whenever you need me. You might not want to talk now, but if you change your mind you know I’m just next door.’ I smile gratefully at her.

‘I know, Laur. You’re a good friend, but please, just leave it, OK? Charlie’s got a temper, I agree, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Today was just a fluke, I promise. Just, please, don’t say anything to anyone. Especially not to Charlie.’ We drink our wine in relative silence – both of us unsure of what to say next. I feel ashamed and embarrassed that Laura has witnessed what happened today, angry at myself that I’m not brave enough to talk to her about it, not brave enough to trust her, but I still can’t bring myself to admit what really goes on in our relationship. After a short while, after checking that I feel OK and that my bandage isn’t too tight, Laura leaves and goes back next door to her mother-in-law and children. Maggie has tired of her water fight and is slumped in front of the television. I feed her, bathe her – awkwardly, as Laura has advised me not to get the burn wet – and tuck her into bed.

Some time later, I am curled up on the couch watching something mind-numbing on the television when I hear the gentle click of the front door latching closed. You appear in the doorway, looking tired and rumpled, your eyes flicking to the white bandage on my arm. I struggle into a sitting position, trying not to nudge the bandage on my arm and set off the white-hot sparks of pain again.

‘Sal, I’m sorry, OK? I lost my temper.’ You sit on the couch next to me, your thigh laid along the length of mine, and I resist the urge to shuffle away. ‘You just make me so mad – why do you have to lie all the time? It’s as though you deliberately try to antagonise me.’ You stroke the bandage gently, and I freeze ever so slightly. It is still so painful and I am nervous that you will press too hard and hurt me. Your words make me flinch – I never lied, I know I never lied. The phone charger wasn’t in the drawer, and I never bought a new SIM card. I don’t want to anger you so I just shrug.

‘I don’t know, Charlie. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

‘You say that, Sal, but it always does, doesn’t it? Does your arm hurt terribly?’

‘No, it’s not so bad.’ You lift my arm, inspecting the bandaging.

‘This is good bandaging, Sal, considering you must have done it with one hand.’
Shit.
I think fast. I’ll have to tell you the truth, after all your ranting about how I lie all the time. What could you do to me today that’s worse than what you’ve already done?

‘I had to get Laura to do it.’ A frown creases your brow. ‘It’s OK. I just ran next door and told her I dropped the kettle; after all, that’s what happened, isn’t it?’ A puzzled look crosses your face, before a small smile appears. I have said the right thing – by rewriting what actually happened we can pretend you had nothing to do with this. That it was not your fault.

‘Absolutely. I’ll get you some painkillers. You stay there and relax – did you eat? Let me make you something.’ Before I can tell you I’m not hungry, that funnily enough my appetite disappeared when you threw boiling water over me, you bustle off into the kitchen. I lean back into the sofa cushions and let out a deep sigh. Any more trouble seems to have been averted for now, and without a doubt we will enter that phase in the cycle in which you can’t do enough for me. I’m no longer sure which is more terrifying – your rage and all that ensues, or the smothering, intense phase that follows.

You enter the living room, balancing a plate of cheese on toast in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. I can’t help it – I shrink back from the hot mug, worried in case it spills on me. Catching the small movement, you place the mug on the floor, and sit next to me.

‘Sal, don’t be silly. It was a stupid accident. It’s not going to happen again.’ You smooth my hair down, and take my hand in yours. ‘Let’s just agree to forget about it now, OK? Remember, I love you, Sal. More than anything, and more than anyone else ever will. As soon as I’ve finished this case, we can take a holiday, a weekend away together, just us. We can spend the whole weekend on our own with no one to disturb us, just you and me. How does that sound?’

I smile weakly at you, your intense gaze boring into me, almost defying me to say no.

‘It sounds perfect, Charlie. Just perfect.’

The rest of the week passes without any further incidents. You make a couple of references to ‘issues’ at work, and I realise that that is what must have made you flip out in the kitchen, the day you threw the water over me. You cook for me, despite getting home late, and put Maggie to bed so I can have a rest in the evenings and actually sit down before nine o’clock, and I even wake up to my mug, all prepared ready for a cup of tea in the mornings, just like you used to, even though I switched to coffee after Maggie was born to help cope with the sleepless nights. You cut the grass, front garden and back garden, at the weekend, a task usually reserved for me,

(‘You have more time, Sal. I don’t want to spend the weekend mowing the bloody grass. I need to relax for Christ’s sake.’) It’s a little reminder of how life used to be, before you got so angry all the time.

Laura keeps her distance, and although at first I worry she’s angry I lied to her, I begin to realise that maybe it’s just because you are around; maybe it’s actually you she is avoiding. I resolve to go over there, once you are at work and things are back to normal. There is always an intense phase after a row in which you hover over me, unable to do enough to ‘make it up’ to me, but this wanes after a few days.

Your behaviour, for now, is impeccable. It’s like nothing happened; like the water incident, the lasagne incident, the allotment incident – none of that stuff ever happened. Anyone looking at our life from the outside would think we have it all. They would think we lead the perfect life.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

CHARLIE

Following on from Sal’s accident with the kettle (Clumsy Sal), life pretty much gets back to normal. I find myself taking care of Sal, cooking, dealing with Maggie; I even cut the grass. I always find that after we have argued I need to show Sal exactly how perfect our life is, how lucky Sal is to have me. I know then that Sal can never leave me, not while I can show how perfect our life actually is most of the time, little blips and arguments aside. Everyone argues now and again, don’t they? I don’t hear anything from Radu Popescu and after a few days, once again, I begin to think he has disappeared, realising his ludicrous tale is exactly that – a story that no one wants to hear, that no one believes. After all, I asked him for proof and nothing has been forthcoming so far.

My relief is short-lived, however, and on Tuesday morning an email lands in my inbox. Checking my door is closed (I do not want Anita to see any correspondence between Popescu and myself), I open it. To my dismay, a long-winded email is completed with two attachments. Opening them, I realise that one is the original birth certificate for Lucian Pavlenco. The other is a Romanian driving licence, also in the name of Lucian Pavlenco, but bearing a photograph of Radu Popescu. The driving licence looks old, authentic; there seems to be no way this can be a fake. There are also photos. Photos of two boys who can only be Radu Popescu and Lucian Pavlenco as children, proof that they did indeed grow up together.
Shit. Maybe Popescu is telling the truth – which means I have to rectify this immediately, before anyone else can find out. What the hell am I going to do?
I drum my fingers on the table, thinking hard. There is only one answer. I am going to have to meet with Lucian Pavlenco and get to the bottom of this, once and for all.

‘Anita?’ I open my door and shout through to my ever-efficient secretary. She appears, a freshly brewed pot of coffee in hand.

‘Charlie! I thought you might need this.’ She pours a cup and hands it to me.

‘Thanks, Anita, you’re a gem. Listen, I need you to get me Lucian Pavlenco on the phone. It’s urgent. Tell his secretary it’s regarding the issues we discussed in our last conversation.’ That should get him on the line; he’s notoriously difficult to get hold of, but knowing what our last conversation consisted of I’m pretty confident he’ll want to speak to me.

Ten minutes later, my telephone buzzes with the internal ring.

‘Anita? Where’s Pavlenco?’

‘I tried, Charlie, I really did. I spoke to his secretary and told her what it was regarding. She came back and said Mr Pavlenco had a message for you – he said to tell you he has nothing further to say on that matter; as far as he is concerned that subject was dealt with in your previous conversation and he sees no reason to revisit it.’ A burst of anger washes over me.
Damn that man. Doesn’t he realise this could jeopardise everything for both of us?
Taking a deep breath, I try to regain my composure. It wouldn’t do to lose my temper in front of Anita.