The Doll's House (12 page)

T
he door was locked, bolted. The curtains drawn, the blinds closed. Marina wanted to keep the outside world as far away as possible. Just her, in the house, alone with her thoughts. Her fears.

And what fears. She had gone straight home without picking up Josephina from Eileen. Let her grandmother enjoy her company for a little longer. She had been shaking so much she could hardly drive, her hands barely able to grip the wheel. The car had wandered into the wrong lane on the Belgrave Middleway, and only the angry horns of fellow drivers pulled back her concentration. And all the while Gwilym's words rang round her head.

I want to get to know you better. Much better
…
 

I doubt that your PC Plod hubby would want the world to know what a little slut wifey is
…
 

I brought along a little bit of proof
…
 

She felt inside her jacket pocket. Her panties were still there. The touch of them triggered off something inside her and she ran into the bathroom, retching. She bent over the washbasin for what seemed like ages. Even though her body was empty, her stomach still kept spasming, trying to expel every bit of unpleasantness, vileness from her.

Eventually it stopped and she looked up, gasping, at her face in the mirror. She didn't recognise the scared, tousle-haired, mad-eyed woman staring back at her. She looked like she had aged a decade since leaving the house that morning.

She splashed on cold water, towelled herself dry. Kept her face in the warm, soft fabric for as long as she could before reluctantly taking it away. She stared into the mirror. The water hadn't improved her features. She still looked the same.

She threw down the towel, went into the bedroom. With the doors secured tight and the blinds and curtains closed, she lay down on the bed, curled into a foetal ball, tried to block out everything else and think. Let her training kick in, not give in to her emotions. Easier said than done. She closed her eyes. Breathed deeply.

Last night. The dinner. Sitting round the table, making polite conversation. She was still finding her feet with her new colleagues, sussing out who was an ally, who an enemy, who could be trusted, who couldn't, who could be cultivated into a friend… then Hugo Gwilym had arrived.

She tried to focus, concentrate harder. Relive every part of the conversation, every gesture. Try to work out just how much alcohol she had drunk.

Answer: not much. Two glasses of red. That was it. Or as near to that as she could remember. Maybe her glass had been topped up by the serving staff and she hadn't noticed, but it wouldn't have been much more than that. Apart from Hugo, she thought with a shudder. He had been intent on filling her glass. But she hadn't let him. Not too much. She had been determined not to get drunk. She was still on her best behaviour, didn't want to embarrass herself in front of her colleagues. Didn't want them forming a negative impression of her.

Her colleagues. Maybe one of them could shed some light on what had happened.

She took her phone from her bag, scrolled through the contacts until she found the right one. Joy Henry. The departmental administrator. She had been sitting on Marina's other side for most of the evening. She would be able to help. Marina dialled the number. It was picked up.

‘Joy? Hi. Marina.'

She was answered by a groan. ‘Oh God… what time is it?'

‘It's… afternoon, I don't know. Are you OK?'

‘Didn't make it in to work today. Feel rotten.'

‘Right.' Marina paused, unsure of how to continue. Joy took the choice away from her.

‘You enjoyed yourself last night.'

The words caused Marina's stomach to turn over once more. ‘Did… did I?'

‘Can't you remember? No, neither can I much. Except…'

Marina steeled herself, fearing the worst. Joy's voice dropped low.

‘You know that PhD student? Guy, the cute one?'

Marina knew him. And of Joy's attraction to him.

‘Well,' Joy said, her voice now a whisper, ‘he's still here. Didn't go home last night.'

‘Oh. Good.'

‘Promise not to tell?'

‘What? Yeah. Promise. Course.'

‘Good. Knew I could rely on you. What happens at the Christmas party stays at the Christmas party, doesn't it?'

Another shiver ran through Marina. ‘What, what d'you mean?'

‘Just what I said. I can keep a secret if you can.'

‘Do you… do you have a secret to keep about me?'

Joy laughed. ‘Well, you seemed to be getting very friendly with Hugo…'

Marina's stomach flipped once more. She felt like she was going to be sick again. ‘We were just… talking. Arguing, mainly.'

‘That's how it starts, isn't it? Insults. Means you really like each other. But don't worry. I won't tell.'

Marina wished she hadn't made the call. ‘Joy, when I left, did I seem… I don't know, exceptionally drunk to you?'

‘No idea. When did you leave?'

I can't remember.
She wanted to say that but, realising how bad it sounded, stopped herself. ‘I… didn't check the time.'

‘Well I didn't see you go. I might have left before you. I was a bit drunk and a bit preoccupied with…' her voice dropped again, ‘you know who.'

‘Right.' Marina sighed. It felt like a dying breath. There was a pause.

‘Have you got some gossip, then?' asked Joy. ‘You and Hugo?'

Marina didn't know what to say, how to answer. ‘Let's… let's speak soon,' she said. ‘Enjoy… enjoy yourself.' She hung up.

She threw the phone on the bed, flung herself down next to it.

She felt like she knew less than before she had made the phone call. She couldn't call anyone else without her actions seeming suspicious. And Joy had had no idea. Though she probably did now.

Marina felt she had made the situation worse.

Tears began to well behind her eyes. Of anger, of frustration, of self-pity.

She thought once again of the previous night. Came up with a blank.

Had she willingly had sex with another man? Really? The recent trauma that she and Phil had been through had necessitated a move away. Could it have also triggered something in her subconscious? Led to behaviour like that, behaviour she couldn't remember?

She had to find out what had happened, what she had done. What had been done to her. Had to. Even if the answer wasn't the one she wanted to hear.

She lay on the bed, curled into a foetal ball, riding out the waves of tears, wondering what to do next.

Feeling so alone. So horribly, guiltily, achingly alone.

M
addy should have been feeling better. She had met him, confronted him, talked to him. But the feeling of joy, or at least euphoric release, she had expected from hearing him say the right thing, tell her that everything was going to be OK hadn't happened. She didn't feel any different. If anything, she felt even more anxious.

They had left the café, walked up to the Bullring, where his car was parked. She had wanted to come back to her room, bring him with her, talk in private, but he hadn't allowed it.

‘I don't think that would be a good idea,' he had said, driving away from the city centre, his hand on her thigh. ‘Not straight away. You might feel a little… depressed there.'

She had wanted to argue with him, tell him that she felt depressed everywhere, but if there was somewhere she felt even a little bit comfortable and safe it was in her room. She had wanted to explain that if they talked there, she could draw strength from being with her own things, that she wouldn't feel bullied into saying or doing something she didn't want to. She tried to say all that but felt too weak, too exhausted to make her points clearly. ‘It's OK,' she had said finally, too tired to explain further, ‘the others won't mind you being there.'

‘It's not that,' he had replied, voice all warm and solicitous, like he was looking out for her best interests, ‘Really, it isn't. It's just you I'm thinking about. What's best for you. How I can best help you. Do the right thing.'

He had paused while his words washed over her, and she had drawn what strength she could from them.

‘They know then, do they? The rest of your house? They know about us?' His hand was gone from her thigh. His voice no longer held its previous warmth.

She shook her head. ‘No,' she said, ‘they don't. Or if they do, I haven't told them.'

‘And they know about… what's happened to you? What you've done.'

Her stomach flipped at the words.
What I've done
.
What I've done
…

Another shake of her head. ‘I didn't tell anyone. Honestly. You told me not to. You told me I should only talk to you. And I did.'

This seemed to calm him somewhat. He smiled at her, replaced his hand. Squeezed. ‘Then don't worry. It'll all be fine.'

‘Who was she?' asked Maddy.

He turned to her, his eyes narrow, unpleasant. ‘What d'you mean?'

‘The woman you were with. Who was she?'

‘Didn't you recognise her? She's another lecturer. A work colleague. Why?'

‘Because you were looking at her like you used to look at me.'

‘What?' He laughed. Maddy didn't. ‘Bollocks. I work with her. That's all. And besides…' he squeezed her thigh again, ‘why would I want her when I've got you?'

She saw the look in his eyes and knew she couldn't argue any more. She tuned out again, thinking about his eyes, his words, trying to order her thoughts, her emotions. They drove the rest of the way in silence. When she looked up again, the car was coming to a halt in front of his house. She had been there before, plenty of times. She had been so impressed the first time she had walked in. An old house but with modern designer furniture. Sofas and chairs and cabinets and lighting all looking like they had come from the best catalogues. Shelves full of books. The kind of place a person the BBC did serious cultural documentaries about would live in. ‘Who lives in a house like this?' she had said to herself the first time, in that irritating voice belonging to the host of a quiz show that used to be on when she was little. ‘Someone with intelligence and culture and taste and money,' she had replied. And she had congratulated herself for being there with him.

But the sheen had gone now. The furniture was out of date by a few years and looked it, the sofas worn and stained, the cabinets chipped, the lighting mottled and dull-looking. Even the books no longer represented the thrilling collection of knowledge she had first thought. Now they just looked old and stuffy, dust-coated and never touched. Just there for show.
To impress people like me
, Maddy thought. The air was still, both oppressive and depressing. It felt like nothing happened here.

Or nothing good, anyway.

‘Make yourself at home,' he said, taking off his jacket and throwing it over the back of a chair. She sat down on the sofa. He came and joined her, passed her a glass. She looked at it. Dark amber liquid swirled. It smelt faintly medicinal.

‘What's this?' she asked.

‘Drink it. Do you good.'

She sniffed it. Grimaced.

‘Down in one,' he said, sitting next to her, eyes on hers, waiting for her next movement.

She looked from him back to the glass, put it to her lips, sipped.

‘Down in one,' he repeated, voice slightly harder now. ‘You'll feel the benefit that way. I promise you.' His voice softer that time.

She looked to the glass, back to him. Unsure and clearly not wanting to do it, but also unwilling to disappoint him, even after everything that had happened between them. She tipped her head back, put the glass to her lips, closed her eyes. Gulped down as much as she could.

Immediately she was coughing, gagging. It not only looked medicinal but tasted it too. And it burned, really, really burned. She felt it stripping away her insides. Like she had put the stuff she used on her legs and bikini line inside her body.

‘Good girl,' he said, and took the glass from her. Immediately it was replenished. ‘Here, have another one.'

She shook her head, hand still at her throat. ‘No…'

‘Go on,' he said, filling it even higher this time. ‘It'll help. With the pain. Make you feel better. It will. Trust me.'

He handed it to her. She took it. Again she didn't want to drink it; again she felt that she had to. She closed her eyes once more, tipped her head back, poured it down.

She coughed, but not as much. It burned, but a little less.

‘That's it,' he said, ‘you're getting used to it. See? It's good for you. It helps. Sometimes things that seem unpleasant at first, well, you just have to persevere, don't you?' He put his hand on her thigh. ‘We'll get there in the end.'

She lay back against the sofa. The room was spinning now, pitching rapidly and swirling. She felt the same way she had when she had smoked a joint. Hot and nauseous. She had hated that feeling, never touched it again. This was the same.

‘Not used to drinking?' he asked.

‘Not… not like this,' she said. ‘Just wine, usually.' She frowned. ‘What… what is it?'

‘Just a little cocktail of my own invention,' he said. ‘You'll get used to it.'

She nodded. Or at least she thought she had nodded.

‘Now,' he said, voice once again warm and solicitous, hand still on her thigh, ‘how are you feeling?'

The conflicting emotions seemed to be dropping away inside her mind. Things seemed to be easier. ‘Good,' she said.

‘Glad to hear it,' he replied, and moved in close to her.

She put her head limply on his shoulder, snuggled into him. All the things she had wanted to say to him were dropping away. She smelt his cologne. She loved the smell of his cologne. She felt his arm around her. She loved his arm around her.

‘You're still bleeding?' she heard him say.

She nodded. It seemed like the right answer.

‘That's only to be expected,' he said. ‘It'll soon pass. And then…' he pulled her even closer, ‘you'll be good as new.'

She nodded. Yes. That made sense.
Good as new
. She closed her eyes.

She felt – or thought she felt – his arm tighten its grip on her. She felt – or thought she felt – his hand moving up her thigh. Part of her wanted to tell him to stop, that she had come to talk to him, that she had important things that needed to be said. That she had to get up, go. But the other part of her, the part that was affected by what he had given her to drink, just wanted to relax. To feel the comfort of his embrace.

‘It's all right,' he was telling her. It sounded like his voice was coming from the end of a long, dark tunnel. ‘You did the right thing. And everything's going to be OK…'

She felt his hands on her again. Her lips curled. She didn't know if it was a smile or a grimace.

And then she felt nothing.