Lisa Hall - The Party

‘I told you, I don’t know. I must have dropped it somewhere at the party. I’ll call Liz and ask her if she’s seen it.’ I move towards the landline phone that hangs on the kitchen wall, before I remember that I don’t know Liz’s number, not off by heart. It’s stored in my mobile, like everybody else’s.

‘Leave it, Rachel. I don’t want to hear any more, OK?’ Gareth sighs, and scrubs his hands over his face, wearily. ‘You can tell me whatever you like, stories about staying at Liz’s or whatever, but I don’t want to hear it. Not now. Did you even stop to think about Robbie? About what he might think about you staying out all night?’

‘Where is he?’ Guilt creeps over me in a hot wash, as I realize that Robbie, my boy, the one thing that has kept me going through all of this with Gareth and Ted, will know that I didn’t come home last night. My cheeks burn with shame. ‘Is he home?’ I don’t want him to hear us arguing – he might be eighteen, but he’s had to listen to us rowing for long enough, no matter how hard I’ve tried to protect him from it. When Gareth and I agreed to make this work between us, I swore to Robbie that the rows were over.

‘No, he’s not home. He stayed at Sean’s last night, if you remember.’ Gareth turns away and busies himself by putting the kettle on and I realize this is also eating away at him. Not only did I not come home, but also Robbie stayed at Sean’s last night – at Ted’s, if you want to get technical about it.

‘Sean’s been his best friend since primary school, Gareth, you can’t begrudge him spending time with him just because of what happened.’

‘Oh, you mean when you decided your best course of action was a rampant affair with Sean’s father, you mean?’ Gareth slams a mug down on the counter and whirls round to face me, a deep red flush burning its way up his neck. ‘Just fuck off, Rachel. You can’t tell me how to feel, or how to act when you prance around doing whatever you want, not caring if you make me look stupid, not giving a damn if people think you’re a whore.’ On that last, spiteful word, one that scorches and burns, he slams his hand down on the table and I flinch.

‘I can’t talk to you right now,’ I whisper, my whole body aching as though I have the flu, my head thumping and the fear and disgust that I first felt upon waking beginning to flood through my veins again. I don’t wait to hear if he answers, just run from the room and upstairs to the bathroom, where I lock myself in and let the tears come.

Hot water thunders into the bathtub, and I move slowly and cautiously, aware of the muscles that twinge and pull with every movement I make as I pour in my own blend of aromatherapy oils and reach for a clean towel. I pull the leggings from my body, peeling them away from my skin, leaving my exposed legs feeling clammy and sweaty, before throwing them towards the laundry basket that sits next to the shower. They miss, landing in a heap on the bathroom floor, looking much the same as they did screwed up on the bedroom floor at Liz’s. Sighing, I bend to pick them up, the sudden movement jarring my head and making bile rise in the back of my throat. Shoving the leggings deep down into the basket I have to move quickly to reach the toilet, before the vomit that has been threatening all morning rises up, quickly, urgently, scorching the back of my throat as I throw up the glass of water and anything else that was in my stomach, until finally, I crawl into the bathtub, exhausted and weeping.

I know that something happened last night at Liz’s party … I rotate my arm, brushing away the bubbles that cling to it, in order to inspect the bruise on my bicep. It’s a deep, angry purple colour, sore and tender, clearly the result of someone holding me far too tightly, but who? And what did I do? Did I upset someone? No. I shake my head; despite the way it seems to make my brain roll around inside my skull. My fingers slide into the warm water, smoothing over the skin on my inner thighs. I clear a hole in the bubbles, raising my leg up and out of the water, flinching at the chill air that hits my skin. Peering closely, I can see now that there is more bruising to the inside of my thigh, round greenish-purple dabs, almost like fingerprints, that hurt when I press lightly on them. Jesus.

Sliding my legs back into the water, hiding the bruises from sight, I lay my head back against the cold enamel of the bath, hot tears stinging my eyes. Think, Rachel, you have to remember. Taking a deep breath, I sniff away the tears and try to pull myself together. The only way to deal with this is to try and remember what happened yesterday – then I can decide how best to move forward. Closing my eyes, I let out the breath I’ve been holding and try to concentrate. I remember getting ready…Gareth was in the shower, and I was drying my hair in front of the bedroom mirror, Radio X playing loudly in the background, and I remember feeling annoyed by one flick of a curl that I couldn’t get to lie flat. Gareth came in from the shower, towel wrapped tightly about his waist, smelling of Hugo Boss aftershave and the fresh scent of shaving gel. He had tutted at my singing, as I wailed along to ‘Boys Don’t Cry’ by The Cure, and I remember feeling secretly relieved that he was in a good mood, seeing as he’d spent most of the afternoon complaining that he didn’t want to go to the party.

‘Why are you tutting?’ I had grinned at him in the mirror, while putting the finishing touches to my hair. ‘Don’t you like my singing?’

‘Ha.’ Gareth looked up from buttoning his shirt. ‘Let’s just say … I didn’t marry you for your voice. You have far better talents than that.’

The unexpected compliment had brought tears to my eyes, and I had blinked them away quickly before my mascara could run.

‘I could say the same for you,’ I stood up, pushing the chair away from the mirror, to find Gareth had crossed the room and was standing directly behind me.

‘You look lovely … really beautiful.’ He had looked down at me, brushing that stubborn curl that just wouldn’t lie properly away from my forehead, before giving me a soft kiss on the lips, not even minding my pink lip gloss. ‘Just, please … and I’m begging you, now … don’t sing any more.’

I had swatted him on the arm, laughing, feeling buoyant and as though maybe, just maybe, we could put things behind us. I remember shivering as we crossed the green, on our way to the party, too stubborn to wear a coat, or a jacket, as it would have ruined my outfit and Gareth pulling me into him to keep warm, the huff of his breath on my hair as he laughed at me for being so ridiculous.

So, we were OK, at least when we set off for the party. Tears sting my eyes again, at the difference in Gareth’s tone this morning when I arrived home. Another memory swims into view – the one that came to mind earlier this morning – Liz, pulling the door open and smiling at me, the faint scent of booze on her breath as she leaned in to kiss me on the cheek, Neil’s raucous laugh in the background. That’s all I remember. The rest of the night is just a blank, a darkness so thick and dense that I don’t feel as though I’ll ever see through it. My head feels packed full of cotton wool, fuzzy and blurry, as I wash myself slowly and deliberately, scrubbing every inch of my exposed skin, until I feel raw and sensitive, my usually pale skin shining a vivid pink as I roughly towel myself dry. My fingers skim over my inner thighs again, and I wince, unable to stop myself from pressing down on the bruising that mars the otherwise unblemished skin.

Pulling on clean pyjamas, I climb into bed, embracing the cool of the cotton and the darkness provided by the blackout blinds, trying to think rationally through what I do know. What happened? Did I go upstairs willingly with someone and let them do this to me? No, surely not. Was I angry with Gareth – did we fight? Not that I can remember – I remember feeling happy, as we walked over to the party. I didn’t have that feeling this morning, the one that I’ve woken up to so many times lately – that prickly, miserable feeling that tells me Gareth and I went to bed on an argument. And even if we had argued, I wouldn’t have slept with someone else at the party to get back at him. I wouldn’t have slept with someone else willingly, not after what happened with Ted, and the hurt and upset that caused.