Page 21

Enduring skeletons

I stewed in the bath, letting the bubbles crackle against my skin.

Maeve, I repeated in my head. Maeve White.

I forced the images of the day through my mind, searching for familiarity, looking for sparks or traps doors in my memory. I tipped my head back, watching the dancing steam, and came up blank. Part of being able to picture that memory had felt like bracing for an avalanche. Perhaps most infuriating of all was that I was scared of it. I hated Elle, I resented her life, but part of me wasn’t ready to let her go and I couldn’t figure out why.

The towel was fluffy and consuming as I rung out my hair, watching the bathwater gurgle away. Raised voices from the other side of the door caught my attention. I felt puddles gather beneath my feet as I crept over, trying to hear. My heart rate quickened. Ben was there, so I was fine, whoever it was. I nudged the door ajar to let in the conversation.

“Why have you started turning me away, what did I do Ben? I thought this was what you wanted!”

a woman’s voice screeched.

Ben bit back, hushed and angry, “Jessica, you’re drunk. Look, you need to go, I told you not to come here.”

“So calling off our engagement wasn’t appropriate, but still fucking me all the time is? That is fucking appropriate?”

I heard her feet clatter across the floor, halting as she spotted my eyes. Redness rose to her cheeks as her body stiffened: not a blush – fury.

“Are you kidding?”

she yelled, lurching towards me, pushing the bathroom door open.

I gripped tightly around the towel, feeing unbearably naked underneath.

Ben stepped over with his hand out. “I’m sorry, Ivy, she’s drunk, just give us a minute.”

It was the first time I’d recognised panic on his face.

“Why is she still here, Ben? I heard she was in the office, the office? What on earth was I thinking with you?”

“You’re making a fool of yourself, let’s go, now!”

Ben asserted, attempting to herd her back out the door, firmly steadying her as she slurred more words.

She looked directly at me, her pretty face dishevelled. “Has he shown you how much of a freak he is? Has he told you what he likes? How he likes to fuck?”

I felt Ben lose it, as if he were a stick that audibly snapped. Taking her hand, he led her swiftly out of the door, not even looking at me as I stood there, in my towel, drips of water falling to the floor. My toes curled into the cold tiles.

“Get off me!”

she screeched, thrashing her arms.

It was an ugly, jarring scene.

“You’re leaving now, I’m getting you a taxi,”

he spat, bundling her out of the door and pulling it shut loudly behind him.

I stood there for a minute, recalling the words, each time hoping they would make more sense, each time feeling different emotions. When had he last slept with her? I felt sick all of a sudden, betrayed by myself.

I pulled on my pyjamas, then my cardigan, feeling exposed, when I heard Ben thump the outside of the front door and shout something before coming back in. I sat on the bed, contemplating what was appropriate to do next, tugging a brush through my wet hair. I wondered if I should get dressed. Did he want me to leave? Should I leave? Did I want to leave?

After ten minutes or so of feeling weird, I headed back to the living room to get a glass of water. Ben was standing at the breakfast bar when I emerged, his hands resting around a crystal glass of whisky. He looked up at me as I took a few steps towards the kitchen, quickly looking straight back down as I tentatively got a drink.

“Are you okay?”

I asked carefully, hoping he would offer me an immediate explanation that would appease the deep ache in my chest.

He kept looking down, his head in his hands. “No.”

My jaw tightened. I nodded, mostly to myself, and took the few steps back to the bedroom. I paused just before the door and looked at him.

He stared into his glass.

I ground my teeth together. I had nothing. There was nothing I could think to say, exhaustion weighing heavy, Jessica’s voice ringing in my ears.

“I’m tired,”

I managed.

He said nothing in response, so I reluctantly shifted my weight to head into the bedroom.

“So that’s it?”

he called after me coldly.

I turned back around, forcing myself to release my tightening grip on the glass. “What do you mean?”

He swigged the golden liquid; it spiralled around the glass, catching the light. The sugary scent wafted over to me, invading my senses.

That smell. That familiar smell.

My stomach churned as my body took an instinctive step backwards, my muscles tensing reactively as jarring pictures flooded my mind.

I always avoided drinking with people on the site – it never ended well. When I’d hear the chink of bottles, it was my cue to stay busy, and stay away. Once, Gareth had gripped my head, forcing me to drink half a bottle at fourteen. When I was violently sick, they all gathered around and laughed. Another time, I’d been hiding away with Ebony in the stables, thinking they’d all just fallen into bed. When I got to my caravan door, with one step on the small metal stair, Marcus threw an empty bottle at my feet, firing glass shards into the mud. I don’t know what I was thinking that day, but I marched over to him, shouting, and thumped two hands into his chest. He’d thrown me into my caravan so hard I thought I’d broken my arm. His sickly laugh still echoed through my ears.

“That’s it? No questions? Nothing else to say?”

Ben continued, tension building, realising I’d zoned out.

We stood facing each other a few steps apart. He must have got up. I needed a response, but I had nothing.

“Ivy?”

he exclaimed, louder, taking another step towards me.

He wasn’t angry. He was hurt.

He wasn’t angry.

I took another step back, then another, avoiding eye contact. His face twisted with confusion as I edged away from him. That smell. My body flinched as Ben grew agitated. Another time at Henworth, when they were all drinking outside, I made the mistake of going back to the stable for my hoodie. Marcus thought it was funny to grab my keys and lock me out. When I wrestled him to get them back, he laughed more, pouring whisky into my hair. I had to stay out all night with that smell all over me. I’d ended up with pneumonia.

“Sorry, Ivy, look, it’s complicated. Let me explain.”

I felt my breathing still, amplifying the fresh pounding of my heart. I took another step back, nearly in the doorway.

No, no, no.

“Ivy!”

he shouted. “For fuck’s sake, talk to me!”

His height was suddenly imposing. I remembered the shivering, suddenly freezing. How my hair had stank of soured alcohol days after, like their breath… like the police officer’s breath.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,”

I said quietly, needing to escape. The more they smelt like whisky, the worse it always got. When they would get in my face to shout or worse, I would taste it in the air.

“Something!”

Ben shouted and I flinched.

There was desperation in his tone, but the smell of the caravan site was stronger.

“I’m tired.”

Get out, get out, get out.

He waved his arm through the air and I dipped down instinctively, even though he had turned around. “Fine,”

he said, exasperated, reaching for the glass once more.

Silently, I retreated into the guest bedroom, backing away one careful step at a time. Glass smashed behind me. I turned just in time to see the golden liquid forging a winding pathway along the floorboards.

I shut the door and my body crumpled as nausea rose. I stumbled to the carpet, leaning against the bed, my head in my hands, and shook.

It’s Ben. Ben would never hurt me. I’m safe. It’s just whisky.

Despite all the conviction I’d forced into the words, my body had slid too far down the path of panic. Why did he have to smash the glass?

My grip on myself was lost. I hugged my knees, digging in my nails, willing the pain to slow my breathing. Instead, the breaths became short gasps as my own ribcage fought against them. The tighter I gripped, the more my body tried to quiver and shake. I tried to remember the feel of the Barbie’s hair, the sand in the jar. I tried to focus, but adrenaline was a potent drug raging through my body. I stayed on the floor, unable to move.

My hips ached and I realised my skin had gone cold. I clambered up, wanting to brush my teeth and climb into bed, exhausted, but it was quiet. Too quiet. I wasn’t sure how long I’d sat there, but it must have been at least an hour because the carpet pile had pressed a pattern into my pyjamas.

I silently nudged the door open enough to see Ben asleep on the sofa, still in his clothes. I sighed, guilt flooding my otherwise empty shell. He’d propped his feet up, sitting back against the arm, looking peaceful, but out of place. The apartment was tidy, with no sign of glass. He’d been hurting and I’d given him nothing. I’d tumbled into myself and hadn’t been able to see an out. This was what I did to people around me: corrupted them with my pain, no matter how hard I tried not to.

Using the wall, I made my way over to him, placing one hand on the arm of the sofa and the other on his round shoulder. He stirred gently.

“You fell asleep,”

I whispered as my hand lingered.

He rubbed his eyes under his crooked glasses before they opened, staring at me, his anger gone.

“Ivy.”

He rubbed his eyes again. “God, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I’m sorry, I was mad, not at you. I—”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry I freaked out.”

He took my hand and held it gently; he felt cooler than usual. I forced a smile for him before turning and heading to the bathroom.

“It won’t happen again. I’ll talk to her when she’s sobered up and make myself clearer,”

Ben assured me as he stood up, stretching out. “She had no reason to come here. Are you okay? What she said—”

“It was the whisky that freaked me out, Ben,”

I explained, gripping the door, ready to shut it, needing this to be done.

I didn’t want to leave him feeling guilty about Jessica. Of course, it had been bloody horrible; the thought of them alone was jarring, the thought of him sleeping with her after having broken off the engagement plain wrong, but Ben had been there for me, he hadn’t judged me, he rarely asked questions. I owed him that respect, as a friend. As potentially more than a friend.

He looked at me with renewed sadness, his eyes connecting with mine even through the darkness. “The whisky?”

My body longed to walk over to him and let him hold me, to curl up in bed like the night before and let his tender touches brush away the last shreds of panic, but there was too much between us that evening. We both knew it.

I nodded, and made my exit.