Painkiller (16 page)

‘No thanks.’

‘Sure?’

‘I’ll stay on the vino.’

‘Did you ever try this stuff for the pain?’ she says, waving her joint. ‘I seem to recall you did, didn’t you?’

I’m drinking when she says this, so I nod, drain my glass, plonk it down and say, ‘Yes, I did try for a while.’

‘No good then?’

‘Not really. Well, I’m not sure if it did anything or it didn’t. I couldn’t smoke enough of it, because of my asthma.’

‘How bitterly ironic. But I’m thinking of that super-dope. Those tablets you got on prescription. I was so jealous.’

‘Nabilone. I was utterly zonked, off my tits, unable to function as a human being.’

‘You lucky bitch.’

I laugh. ‘Problem was, the super-dope gave me super-munchies, and I would hobble to the shop on my sticks, stock up on chocolate, eat it on the way back home, and turn around and go back again. It wasn’t really the life I’d planned for myself. That’s the problem; that’s what I found very quickly after my accident. There are no drugs they’ve developed that actually deal with pain.’

Angelina is not a woman who leaps in and utters stupid things. Unlike Jesse, she leaves the crushingly obvious unsaid, because she knows saying the crushingly obvious is a waste of everyone’s time. I’m so grateful to her for that, because questions are so often the things that drain my energy.

I still see the frown flicker on her forehead, the unspoken question on her face, but this time I’m glad to talk about it.

‘Oh sure, there’s your headache pills, and your Beechams Powders, your paracetamol, but nothing for chronic neuropathic pain. Most drugs just try to switch bits of your brain off, which isn’t much use to me, really.

‘It’s funny, these chemicals, how completely they change you when you put them in your body, how your personality completely transforms. And the pain changes who you are too. I was just saying to a – friend – the other day, what with the mind-altering drugs and the pain screwing with my head, I have no idea how to work out which Monica is me any more…’

Angelina waves her glass expansively in the air. The red wine sloshes alarmingly near the lip of the glass.

‘Monica, you’re a sweetheart. You’re a sweetheart now, and you always have been.’

‘Thank you, darling. So are you.’

I raise my empty glass in a mock toast, and she scrambles out of her beanbag. ‘Fuck, we’re out of booze. I’ve got another bottle somewhere. Can’t go dry, tonight of all nights.’

She stumbles off to the kitchen and I sit, and I feel the warm buzz of the wine numbing my senses, and I listen to the clatters and the ‘fucks’ as Angelina wrestles with a bottle opener.

She’s at the door, new bottle in hand, when I ask, ‘Angelina… what was I like, before?’

She chucks wine into my glass. ‘Before what?’

‘Before the accident. I’m sure I must have been different. It stands to reason.’

‘Not really.’

‘But I feel like I’ve changed. My life is upside down, my relationship with Dominic has changed, everything has changed, and it’s all changed because of one thing; I changed first. The accident changed me, and I changed everything else.’

‘You’re getting a bit bloody deep for my blood, darling. The only philosophies I read are the fortune cookies I get delivered with my dim sum.’

‘It’s not deep at all. It’s just a fact. An empirical, observable fact. How have I changed? Go on, think.’

‘You haven’t really. Well…’

‘Ah! I knew there would be a “well”.’

‘I think you were much… harder.’

‘Really? That’s interesting. Harder? How so?’

‘Well, a lot of it was your job, you know, the flinty ball-busting agent, but you were certainly a bit more…’

‘Aggressive?’

‘I was going to say a bit more of a fucking bitch, but yeah…’

I giggled.

‘So I was a bit of a cow then?’

‘No, darling, not a cow. A bitch. You were my friend, and I do not have cows as friends. But you were less patient with people; with your clients, with Dominic, you didn’t suffer fools gladly is, I believe, the cliché…’

‘Oho, when I hear that old phrase, the alarm bells do go.’

She pointed her glass at me. ‘Now I want to be very clear about this. You were not a cunt. You were – and still are – a warm, clever, funny and adorable human. But then, you utterly chopped the bollocks off the slow-witted and the prematurely stupid. So, to sum up, you were a bit more like me.’

‘I like the sound of that.’

‘Once you got an idea in your head. A goal. You went for it, and to hell with the consequences. In fact…’

She stops, frowning. She looks almost disappointed in herself for saying too much.

‘In fact what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You were going to say something.’

‘Nope. It’s completely gone. I’ve completely lost my train of thought. I probably need more wine to oil the pistons.’

‘You said I was less patient with Dominic? Did I chop his bollocks off too? I mean, we worked well together? We were happy, right?’

‘Darling, you talk like you remember
nothing
from before the accident. I’m sure that’s not the case.’

‘I remember lots of things. Events. Sensations. But sometimes they’re all disconnected, because
I’ve
changed. I… Sometimes I miss the
meaning
of what’s happened. Do you understand?’

‘I think so.’

‘I remember arguments. Angry voices. Dominic’s angry face. I remember a lot of tears.’

We fall silent.

‘I’m not saying everything was rosy in Chez Wood…’ Angelina spoke slowly, picking her words carefully. ‘You were quite dismissive about him at times. Dominic Wood; the only guy in advertising who avoids work where he actually has to lie. You did get frustrated with him, from time to time.’

‘I see.’

‘It was sometimes stressful. You were a success, he was always on the verge of losing his job. That always creates friction. That’s why I never go out with struggling artists; they always get bitter, and they always want to know why I’m displaying other people’s work and not theirs. It’s like in their eyes I’m having an affair.’

In their eyes I’m having an affair. Yes. You can see it in their eyes.
 

(
In his eyes
)

Yes.
 

I allow her to take a good long swig before I say, ‘Was I the kind of person to hurt him?’

‘You don’t mean physically?’

‘God no. Just… did I ever hurt him?’

She looks at me steadily. ‘By which you mean, “Did I have an affair, and have I just forgotten?”’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘How could you forget that, darling?’

‘I don’t know!’ I snap, suddenly impatient.

She looks at me, unflinching, holding her beatific smile, and I’m suddenly very ashamed.

‘Sorry, Lena… Look… Like I said… There’s memories in my head, lots of them, but they’re like tube trains, coming through the tunnel when you’re standing on a platform. They arrive all right, but you can’t see where they’ve come from and you can’t see where they’re going to…’ I wave my hand in desperation.

Angelina’s mouth twitches. ‘Hmm. Not that I know of. To my knowledge, you never allowed anybody’s tube train to enter your metaphorical tunnel. You were an outrageous flirt sometimes, but again, that’s being an agent. You knew it was an important part of the job to tickle the testicles of actors, directors, casting agents, but they were always metaphorical testicles, not literal ones. You never seemed to go in for that kind of thing.’

‘And Dominic knew that, right?’

‘Oh yeah, I mean, I assume he did. I’ve never known him that well, but the way you talked about him, yes, I think he did.’

I don’t respond.

‘Monica, you’re taking me on a very mysterious journey here, and it would help me if you gave me a travel guide. Why are we talking like this?’

‘Dominic doesn’t want me to have this treatment.’

‘What treatment?’

‘It’s a new thing they have. They try to burn out the nerve endings under the skin.’

Angelina shudders. ‘Jesus. I don’t blame him.’

‘But it’s had some success, people have had it done, and they’ve had a lot of pain relief, and it’s hardly worse than all the gruesome stuff they put me through in the early days. He didn’t mind, then.’

She cocks an eyebrow.

‘Monica, darling, one thing that has
never
changed about you is your ability to never ask a question to which you already have an answer. So what’s your theory in all this?’

‘I think he’s frightened of me getting better, and me leaving him.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘The way he acts, the way he looks so
scared
when we talk about the treatment. But not for me. For himself.’

Angelina knows there’s more to come. ‘And?’

‘And… Well.’

‘And?’ She makes a little twirling motion with her hand.

‘And… I found photos on Dominic’s side of the computer.’

‘Photos? Of what?’

I know from the tone of her voice she’s expecting me to say ‘rude photos’.
Men are so predictable.
So I am almost gratified at the comical look of surprise on her face when I say,

‘Photos of me…’

‘Well, you’re a gorgeous creature, darling, it’s only natural —’

‘No, look…’

I grope for my bag under my seat, put it on my lap and pull out a plastic sleeve. I toss out some of the photos I’d printed up. They land on the floor at Angelina’s feet. Twenty, thirty, forty…
Lots
of photos of me. Photos taken of me hobbling around after my accident, me on the street, trying to go to the shops, eating pasta in a café…

‘And there’s more. A lot more. And they’re all taken without my knowledge. It’s like he got a detective to follow me around in case I… did something.’

Angelina barely glances down at the photos at her feet. She’s icy calm. She doesn’t even remove the glass from her lips. ‘And did you… do something?’

‘
Of course not!
I was barely able to stand without crying! Do you think I was in any fit state to have an affair?’

‘Then forget everything. Forget these photos. Tear them up. Forget them.’

I scoop the photos back towards me with my foot. ‘I can’t forget it.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘Suppose Dominic thinks I’m having an affair? Suppose he does something?’

At this comment, Angelina finally puts her drink down. ‘Believe me, he wouldn’t.’

‘But how do you know?’

‘Because he’s bloody
Dominic
!’ she explodes, suddenly angry. She calms herself. ‘Sorry, Mon, but the whole idea is so
ridiculous.
Dominic? I mean,
Dominic
? It’s Dominic. Dear little God-bothery Dom, who believes in the sanctity of life, who goes to church every Sunday… I mean, come
on
…’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘You’re right. You have to remember. It’s the pain. It makes me think mad unthinkable things.’

‘Darling, I completely understand.’ She lunges forward and touches my knee, very gently. ‘God, who knows what’s going through
anyone’s
head? I’ve killed Clyde in so many exquisite ways in my head this evening, but I have no intention of doing so… Not tonight, anyway.’ She grins savagely. ‘When the hangover comes tomorrow… who knows what I’m capable of?’

‘So you’re saying that having a lot of pain would make you want to commit murder? Perhaps it’s Dominic that’s in danger… From me.’

She raises her almost empty glass and toasts me. ‘Touché, Mon,’ she drawls. ‘Touché. Personally, I can murder another bottle. How about you?’

I wake up…

… And my body screams for release.

My Angry Friend is punishing me for last night. I put on a brave face for Angelina. I haven’t the heart to tell her how I feel, not after all she’s done. But pills and mattresses can only do so much.

My Angry Friend will have his pound of flesh.

She takes me for breakfast at the Eat Me café (scrambled eggs on sourdough toast), and after much hugs
oh, the pain
and promises to keep in touch, I leave her and sink into a taxi. It’s only after the front door closes that I’m free to fall on the floor and cry.

Then my phone goes. It’s Dominic. Still lying in the hallway, I press the phone to my ear.

‘Hi, Mon. You have fun at the art thing? And at Angelina’s?’

Keep the tremor out of your voice, Monica.
 

‘Glorious fun. Thank you so much.’

‘Great.’

‘You two are the best. And you… are the bestest of them all.’

‘I know.’

‘Good. I’m glad you know.’

‘Listen, darling, you remember that job interview I went for?’

‘No.’

‘The Gamble thing?’

I still don’t know what he’s talking about, so I just say ‘yes’. It’s easier.

‘Well, there’s good news.’

‘You got a new job?’

‘Not quite. Things are never that simple. They want me to go to a series of interviews over the weekend. In Swindon, would you believe.’

‘Swindon? Is there
anything
in Swindon?’

‘Some conference centre. A big zit by a motorway. They’ve got this fetish for
Apprentice
-style meetings and tasks and knock-out rounds. That kind of nonsense.’

‘How horrible. Don’t do it, darling. Don’t humiliate yourself.’

‘Yeah… But I want this. I’m just ringing to say I’ll be up there for a couple of days. At least until Monday. Perhaps even longer. I’ll stay over.’

‘OK… No problem…’

‘You’ll be OK on your own? I’ve not been away for, gosh, it seems like ages. How’s the pain?’

‘It’s fine,’ I lie. ‘The pain’s fine. If I get a flare-up Agnieszka can look after me, or I’ll call Jesse. Or even Angelina.’

‘Angelina? I’d love to see her bedside manner.’

‘I bet you would.’

We were both aware that the conversation was starting to take an odd turn, so we made moves to end the call.

‘Well, good luck and everything.’

‘Thanks. Here’s hoping.’

‘Drive safely.’

‘OK. Love you lots.’

‘No, love
you
lots.’

‘You hang up.’

‘No
you
hang up.’

‘No
you
hang up.’

‘No you —’

Brrrrrrrrr.

I am partly in shock, but partly exhilarated.

I am on my own.

Truth to tell, ever since Dominic tried to squash the notion of going through with the treatment, scenarios have been whipping through my brain. Scenarios where I would show him. Where I would take my life in my own hands, and have this treatment without him.

So I can go and get the treatment now? What if he sees a difference in me?

So what?
I can lie. I do it all the time
,
I tell myself.
I lie when I don’t talk about my pain. I lie when he asks me if I’m all right, and I say ‘fine’. This is just another version of that.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
 

So the moment the phone call ends I fight through the fog of pain. I have to get the treatment; Dominic or no Dominic. The first thing I need to find is

you must have someone to take you home.
 

I can’t risk turning up alone.

I can’t risk them refusing me the treatment. I have to find someone to take me.

The phone rings and rings, and keeps on ringing. Angelina isn’t there.
Did she say she was going off for the weekend?
Has she just upped and gone on one of her ‘working holidays’ in France? I try her mobile.

Straight to voicemail.

‘Hey, Lena, it’s Mon. I really need your help. It’s quite urgent. If you’re back in London before Monday, give me a call.’

A day passes and no word from Angelina. I leave more messages, one on Friday evening, and two more on the Saturday.

Time is running out.

Larry’s kitchen is Jill’s domain, and it shows. It’s filled with chintz, with fussy dressers covered in plates and knick-knacks. There is a faint smell of cat food, and a lot of the decorations have a cat motif; little china moggies sit grinning on pine shelves. A cat-themed clock grins from the wall. Photos of beaming children are plastered over the fridge and stuffed inside a corkboard.

I was a fool to come here. But I’m getting desperate. I stand awkwardly by the kitchen door, unable to sit.

Larry French lumbers in, barely fitting in through the doors. He is big, all curves, like he’s drawn with circles. His big round head is fringed with a brown fuzz, and his big round nose is pushed randomly between two big round cheeks.

He comes up to me and I realise he’s nervous. He’s happier in the shed, in the living room, anywhere but here, but here seems the right place for him to entertain a woman. Where he can talk and look after me at the same time.

His fat fingers drum on the work surface. ‘Now. Can I get you anything. Tea? Coffee?’

‘Oh yes. Coffee would be lovely.’

He walks to the corner of the kitchen and stops. He does his big huh-huh laugh: ‘Sod it. Jill’s not here and I can’t work the machine. In fact, I can’t work any of this stuff. I can just about warm my dinner in the microwave without setting fire to the house. Instant do?’

‘How about tea?’

‘You got it. Sugar?’

‘No thanks.’

‘I’ll get some biscuits out. Jill got an assortment from the milkman. You can get all sorts from the milkman these days. We can get boxes of veg nowadays.’

‘Fancy,’ I say. ‘I suppose they have to make a living. Dominic gets our milk from the supermarket.’

‘Jill has a couple of pints on order, and a four-pinter for when Nathan comes back from uni.’

And Larry makes me a cup of tea. The mug has a cat on it (of course) and the words ‘A purr-fect cuppa!!’ I can barely lift it.

‘So right, let’s get this straight. I’m not quite sure what you’re asking me, darling. So, right, there’s this treatment…’

‘Yes, it’s experimental but it’s proved to be quite effective against pain.’

‘That’s brilliant news, Sunflower. Fair play to you, you deserve a break. You want me to pay for it?’

‘No.’

‘Cos I’ve just had a windfall. An old mate just gave me a lot of money…’ His brow wrinkles, trying to remember how normal, law-abiding people suddenly get hold of huge amounts of cash. ‘In his will.’

‘Thanks, but it’s all on the NHS. These trials are, anyway. But Dominic doesn’t want me to have it done. He thinks I shouldn’t get my hopes up. It’s only proved to give temporary relief.’

‘What’s wrong with temporary, that’s what I say.’

‘Exactly. I could live a normal life for a few months, come off the painkillers. Maybe even have a holiday.’

He nods, thinking hard. ‘I see. So what do you need from me, flower?’

‘Dominic won’t help me. But look…’ I flap the letter under his nose. ‘It’s a major treatment, and I’ll be in no condition to make it home alone. They need me to bring a chaperone, or they won’t treat me.’

‘Oh, I get you now.’

He takes the letter and his huge meaty brow creases as his eyes dart from right to left. ‘But the thing is, I’m starting rehearsals next week. I’ll be in the National doing my thesping. I won’t be available anytime during the day.’

‘Oh. Of course you are. Stupid of me. I should know that. I am your agent, after all. I’m so sorry to bother you. So sorry.’

The pain is clouding my brain. I should have realised. Stupid stupid stupid.
 

(
You need to get out of here now
)

‘Look, I got a lot of mates who owe me a favour. They could go with you, if you like.’

‘No, really. It’s fine. I’ll make other arrangements.’ A thought occurs to me. ‘There’s my sister. She’ll be happy to help.’

‘Whatever you say, Sunflower. But if she can’t help, just say the word and I’ll be there.’

He is so kind to me, and I can’t even remember he’s working on the biggest job of his life.
Acting job. Not bank job. I have no idea of the biggest bank job he’s ever done
. I almost giggle at the strange thoughts in my head. I feel stupid, and humiliated, and the pain is edging me down the rabbit hole.

I really have to get out of there.

I somehow make it to the door. Larry escorts me. He is all smiles and big chuckles, but his eyes are not happy. He keeps looking at the cat clock, watching the tail moving like a metronome and the eyes bobbing from side to side.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Jesse, it’s Monica.’

‘Monica, I was just about to phone you —’

‘— on Wednesday. I know you were. You phone me the same time every week. Just like you phoned Nana the same time every week when she was dying.’

‘Well, there’s no need to be like that… I do
care
you know…’

‘Sorry. Look… I need a favour.’

‘What kind of favour?’

‘I need someone to drive me to the hospital. I’m having a treatment.’

‘What kind of treatment?’

‘It’s a new kind of treatment.’

‘I bet it’s the one I just read about in the
Daily Mail
. I’ll snip it out and send it to you.’

Oh great.
 

‘Oh, great, but I need someone to take me there, tomorrow, and wait for me, and to look after me. It’s going to be a pretty traumatic experience.’

‘Tomorrow? What time?’

‘The appointment’s pretty early, nine o’clock, but I’ll need you for the whole day.’

‘Nine o’clock in the morning? I can’t do that. I’ve got kids to take to school.’

‘Can’t Graeme do that for you?’

‘He’s tired in the mornings. He works all night.’

‘He can get out of bed just this once.’

‘Well, why can’t Dominic look after you?’

‘He’s busy.’

‘Well, so’s Graeme.’

‘Sleeping.’

She can hear the sarcasm in my voice. ‘Fine that’s it. You’re out of line.’

‘Jesse —’

‘It’s no excuse for bad manners. Graeme closes that restaurant at one, and leaves it at two o’clock at the earliest. There’s no way I’m waking him after five hours’ sleep. And if you’d stop to think about it, you’d know damn well I wouldn’t.’

‘Jesse, this is important.’

‘Everything you’ve ever done in your life is important, Monica. Every opening night, every school play you were in, it was always the most important thing in the world. It was important you had to talk about your latest boyfriend all night when I was trying to get to sleep.’

‘Yes. Yes…’

‘It was important to cut the hair off my dolly because you had a burning ambition to be a hairdresser.’

‘I get it.’

‘An ambition, I might add, that didn’t last until the afternoon.’

‘I said I get it. But this is important.’

‘Not important enough for your husband to cancel whatever he’s doing, so not important enough to wake Graeme,’ she said firmly.

‘What about Sam?’

‘Sam? He’s at university.’

‘No he’s not, Jesse, it’s bloody July. He’s on holiday.’

‘OK, he’s here, but if you think he’s going to get out of bed for nine o’clock, then…’

‘I’ll be willing to pay him, Jesse. Fifty quid for a day’s work. It could be half a day. Fifty quid for a couple of hours. Guaranteed.’

There is a long silence from Jesse. I can hear the faint gurgle of the dishwasher in her kitchen.

‘OK, I’ll ask him, but I doubt he’ll want to, even for money. He’s an idle so-and-so at the moment.’

‘Brilliant. Thank you.’

‘I’ll post you the
Daily Mail
article.’

Must you?
 

‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

It’s a lonely drive to the hospital.

I’m not in the mood for conversation. He senses this, and he asks if he can put the radio on. I say yes but I can’t cope with the chatter and adverts, and after ten minutes I apologise and ask him to turn it off.

The raindrops slap the windows, and the
bwump bwump bwump
of the windscreen wipers is like an ominous drumbeat.

‘I’ll just park the car,’ he says. ‘I won’t be long.’

I stand on the kerb and watch him drive down the street. For the short time I was inside the car it felt like a sanctuary, and now I am in the chill of the morning I feel incredibly exposed. I look around, suddenly nervous, like a young woman hovering at the doorway of an abortion clinic.

Inside, a bored receptionist tells me to follow the signs, but the woman who meets me at the doors of the pain clinic looks anything but bored. She is all smiles. ‘Hello, Monica,’ she chirps. ‘You get here OK? No traffic problems? It is awkward this time of day.’

I’m a shell-shocked toddler on my first day in nursery. I shake my head dumbly. ‘It was fine. My husband’s parking the car.’

‘Oh good. Just down here, we’ve got a bed all ready. Just call me Sue. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’

She’s being extremely nice, trying to calm me down, but it has the opposite effect. I’ve done enough of these to know that the nicer the nursing staff, the nastier and more painful the treatment. By the time I’m lying on the bed my hands are shaking so much I can barely switch my mobile off.

Call-Me-Sue then starts to strip my identity away from me, piece by piece; first my belongings, then my clothes, and now I’m just an almost-naked woman shuffling around in paper slippers. I pad back and forth along the ward, looking at people, wondering what’s wrong with them, wondering if they feel any of the pain I feel. They’re probably thinking exactly the same thing about me.