Trying to Throw my Arms Around the World

Trying to Throw my Arms Around the World Part 3

A woman transformed

“What did you want to talk about?” Claire asked. I was naked beneath the sheets. My skin was damp and dirty. I wanted to disappear. I closed my eyes and smelled her perfume on me, DKNY − the one targeted at women in their early twenties.

“I’m not moving in with you. It’s too soon.”

“OK, fair enough. But, let’s face it, you’ll probably spend most of your time there anyway.” She ran her fingers over my collar bone, her red nails brought out the paleness of my skin.

“What have you been up to this week?” She pressed her hand down above my breasts and pushed herself up. It hurt.

“Is that what this is about? You think I’ve been doing God-knows-what?” I stared at the broken-white ceiling. I was so sick of this hotel.

“I met someone.” I pulled the sheets up to my chin. “In Cambridge.” She folded her legs under her body and faced me. Her eyes scanned my skin for signs of something, but it was protected by the sheet.

“OK. Tell me.”

“We kissed.” I felt so inadequate. Why had I not just fucked her?

“That’s it?” Claire’s question seemed to mock me. I was not the one who was supposed to feel so bad about this. I turned my head towards her. I ignored the tears.

“Yes,” I said. “But−” She leaned in and kissed my cheek. Her tongue caught my tears and willed them away.

“It’s OK, baby.” Her lips were so close to my eyes I couldn’t see them. They still reminded me of Sarah’s. “It’s OK.” A heavy sadness settled in my bones. I was the one with the problem. Claire’s tongue travelled down. Why the hell not? I thought. She trailed a path of sticky wetness on my skin, but it didn’t register. The disconnect was complete. 

Time ticked away. Claire slept beside me as if everything was still the same. It was only one AM. The beginning of something new clouded my blood. Vivian Carsey’s last words clung to the back of my skull, like an ever-present reminder. Was this the life-altering decision, then? If I got up out of this bed and quietly let the door fall in its lock behind me, would I be free? I just wanted to go home. Maybe Eleanor had the answers. I left Claire a note saying I’d call her tomorrow and confronted the semi-darkness of the London night.

In Kensington the lights were still on. Good, I thought. Someone to share this bottle of brandy with. I had gotten a real taste for the liquor now, wine had suddenly become too soft, its sting too tame. I found Eleanor in the sitting room with two old ladies from her reading group, and Lucy. Of course.

“What’s up, ladies? Burning the midnight oil at your age, that’s a bit risky, no?” Eleanor got up to hug me and I could smell the sherry on her breath. These old birds were on their version of a Saturday night bender. Good for them. Suddenly I realised that, over the weeks, a strange thing had occurred. Eleanor’s house was my home now. I wasn’t moving anywhere.

“Hi, Lee,” Lucy said. “Are you a woman transformed?”

“Can’t you tell?” I held the bottle of brandy in front of her nose. “I turned to the hard stuff.”

“That bad?” 

“I wouldn’t say bad. It was definitely interesting. And not nearly as alcohol-free as the leaflet made it out to be. Want some?” Eleanor’s friends rose and left. It was well past their bed time.

“It’s good to have you back, Lee.” Eleanor said, and excused herself for the night. It was just me and Lucy then. And a bottle of brandy. On a Saturday night.