Page 30 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
It’s disconcerting, not having access to my things. Embarrassing, too. I look away from Matt’s piercing gaze. He strokes his jaw, which is a bit stubbly. I imagine I know how it feels, the prickliness of it, but how could I? David is the only man whose face I’ve touched for years, and he is always clean-shaven.
‘Leave it with me,’ he says.
‘Where was the last place you went on holiday?’ I ask, desperate to get off the awkward subject of money.
He doesn’t look surprised, and doesn’t pause, either. ‘Greece,’ he says, like it’s nothing. ‘Have you been?’
‘No. Tell me what it was like.’
The truth is, I haven’t been anywhere, even though I’ve always longed to travel. As a child, I used to ask Mum and Granny Rose to get holiday brochures for me and I would spend hours cutting and gluing photos into a scrapbook. Places I wanted to go. Things I wanted to see. How have I reached the age of thirty without once flying on a plane?
‘It was gorgeous. White-sand beaches, clear sea, houses built into hillsides, and the food. The food was incredible. I’ve never known salads like them.’
I close my eyes, try to picture it. And I feel like I can. Must be all those hours spent flicking through brochures. For a second, I can feel the hot sand on the soles of my feet, but then it’s gone, and I’m back.
‘I’d like to go,’ I say. ‘One day.’
‘Where else?’
‘Italy, and the south of France, and pretty much everywhere in Asia, and maybe Canada and some parts of the US.’
‘Where will you start?’ he asks.
I’m a bit surprised, because I expected him to ask where I’ve already been, but he doesn’t, which means I don’t have to admit that I’ve been nowhere further than Edinburgh.
‘I don’t care,’ I say. ‘Anywhere. There’s nothing like being stuck in a hospital bed for days on end to give you itchy feet.’
‘Any news on when you might expect to escape?’
I feel a slight pang, but I ignore it. ‘My nurse, Angela, she thinks I’ll be moving to a normal ward soon, but no one’s mentioned anything about going home.’
That word, home. What will I find there? Do I even have one? And because it’s too painful to think about the end of my relationship with David, I wait until Matt has gone and then I go back to the beginning of it instead.
18
THEN
I am applying mascara when the doorbell goes. I answer with the wand in my hand. It’s David, his face hidden behind an enormous bouquet of flowers.
‘For you,’ he says.
‘God, why?’
‘No reason. I just… wanted you to have something beautiful, that’s all.’
I feel like I can’t believe my luck. Those awful years with Mick, those feelings of being worthless… they were all leading me here. To this rented flat, which is small and a bit worse for wear but all mine and Dee’s, and this man. How refreshing it is to be with someone who adores me and doesn’t try to play games or make me suffer for it. Who picks up flowers just because and often calls into the pub with a piece of my favourite carrot cake from the deli up the road.
I have cooked for us. Dee is working, so we have the place to ourselves. Though we’ve been seeing each other for a few months now, this is the first time I have made him dinner, and I’m strangely nervous about it. It isn’t like serving him drinks in the pub. It feels intimate, and like I’m showing him something ofmyself. And besides, I’m better at baking than I am at cooking. I’ve spent half the day poring over recipe books and have come up with this: a beef bourguignon, bubbling away on the hob, rice ready to go on. And in the fridge, individual strawberry mousses, and plenty of wine. I take the first bottle out now, and David goes to the cupboard where I keep the glasses, and it is oddly satisfying that he knows his way around my place. For a second, I imagine us living together, sharing the making of dinner. Working around one another, like a team.
‘This all looks great,’ David says, gesturing with his hand to take in the food cooking and the table I’ve set for two. ‘Thank you.’
‘You haven’t tasted it yet,’ I say.
But I know, really, that I’ve pulled this off. I look at him properly, then, for the first time, and see the way he is looking at me, like he almost can’t believe it, and it makes me feel all soft and shiny. He’s leaning back against the kitchen worktop, a glass of wine in his hand, raising it in a toast. And I go over to him, take the glass from his hand, go up on my tiptoes, and kiss him. I try to show him how I’m feeling, try to let him know that I am happy. I put a hand on the crotch of his jeans, suggestive. But after a minute or so, he pulls away, puts his hands up as if in surrender.
‘Woah, Shelley, hold on a bit, can’t you?’
I am taken aback. It isn’t as if we haven’t slept together yet. We’ve had sex countless times, and he’s always seemed keen. So why the reluctance? I turn away from him so he can’t see my hurt, flick the kettle on for the rice.
