White Sand

Looking in the mirror, ‘’God, I hope they can’t tell..’’, she thinks.

Topping up her make-up, Anna wonders how soon into the night someone will point out her black eye. Of course Miriam will have something to say, when doesn’t she?

She put some effort in to her appearance tonight. Perhaps foolishly, she hopes that dressing well will give the impression that she is stronger than she feels right now.

Anna knows that they will pity her - she has attended many functions alone recently. She says Paul is busy, but she’s not naïve enough to think that they believe her. No one pushes it though; they accept the lies and play their part because that will always be easier than keeping a straight face when Paul does, rarely, attend. Everyone knows about the affairs, everyone knows about the money and everyone knows about the fights.

Her friends were supportive at first but over time they were overcome with disappointment and frustration after the fifth time she left him and returned the following day. Anna once left for a week, moved her stuff into a storage locker and told them this was it, it was over for good this time. She held strong in the days she was away, wondering how many women had slept in her bed whilst she was gone. 

All it took was a text from Paul and she was back in the living room, sat in her chair, flinching every time Paul’s voice would rise. Hating him, but unable to live without him.

She’s never been very good at letting things go. Letting people go.

Okay. Make-up done, shoes on, umbrella at the ready. Emma steps outside to wait for her Uber. ‘’Your driver is outside’’ - right, sure he is. 

She stands in the rain practicing her lines: ‘Paul sends his love’, ‘Oh this? You know me, always clumsy.’, ‘Works been good, busy as always, bring on the holidays!’.

No sign of the Uber. She checks her phone, she’s going to be late. 

******

Entering the party, she takes a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth, psyching herself up for the night ahead. 

Fuck, of course Myriam answers the door.

‘Emma! How are you? Come in! No Paul again?’

‘Hey Myriam, huh? Oh, yes. Well, you know what he’s like - work always comes first’ Emma stutters in response.

‘Yeah, I suppose I do. Come in, let me take your coat, everyone's just through there’, Myriam points through the darkened corridor towards the living room. Even from out here Emma can feel the atmosphere and, bizarrely, she finds herself wishing more than anything for a few more seconds in this quiet corridor with Myriam. 

Another breath. In and out. Right, here we go.

Emma nervously walks through the entrance hallway that only today she notices is a strange shade of green, almost puke like. The vomit coloured walls are littered with photos of Myriam’s overachieving children and snaps from their skiing holidays. Emma isn’t sure whether she hates the colour or the photos more.

Emma braces as she gets closer to the door. Her hand rests on the handle, she’s about to push the door open and face the depressing buzz of middle-aged adults making forced conversation, ever desperate to impress and compensate for their receding hair and northbound breasts. 

‘Emma..!’’ Myriam whispers as she pulls Emma back from the door. ‘Your eye. Are you okay?’

‘What?’ Emma feels winded, she was hoping this could have waited until later. At least a drink into the night, she had hoped. ‘Oh, yeah. My eye. You know me, clumsy as ever. I’m fine!’

An awkward silence passes between them, the juxtaposition from the chattering and laughter in the other room makes this moment almost deafening.

‘That prick. Emma, I won’t get into this again, can’t get into this again. But.. God I hate him. What is wrong with you, why wont you leave him’

Emma is unsurprised by Myriam’s response. She was by far the least forgiving when Emma returned to Paul the last time.

‘Myriam, I know what you think, but that’s not what this is. Please, let it go’ 

All of a sudden, Emma is keen to get into the living room and disappear into the sea of insecurity and failed dreams. She pushes past Myriam without another word and joins the party.

*****

The living room is large but filled with furniture; so filled that even in this great space, people find themselves contorting their bodies in such a way as to fit in a nook or cranny, trying to act casual and aloof despite having to rest their arm on an antique cabinet in order to hold their drink as they chat to their friend.

Emma can’t help but to look around and imagine how much each item cost. She casts her eyes across the room and notices a vintage oil lamp - she remembers when Myriam bought it at an auction they visited together. Myriam just HAD to have it, so she said. £1450. Emma wonders if anyone else here is blinded by the pretentiousness of this house and it’s belongings. 

Myriam is not the only person who commented on Emma’s eye. Most were polite enough to accept her bullshit stories and the rest would simply mutter something about Paul which Emma would pretend not to hear.

The night was almost over. It’s 11pm. The party continues but Emma makes her excuses; ‘Paul will be home soon, he will be wondering where I am’

‘He wasn’t thinking of you when he was balls deep in his receptionist. Fuck him’ Lauren becomes quite vulgar after an evening of zero-sugar mixers with vodka.

‘Thanks Lauren. That’s lovely. Despite what you may think, we’ve made some great strides. He’s changing. I won’t be made to feel bad for trying to fix my marriage’ Emma retorts.

‘Fuck Emma, when will you let him go? You could do so much better’ Lauren was always honest. For all her faults, she really was a loyal friend to Emma and these comments came from a place of love. Emma kisses Lauren on the cheek and makes her way out of the door. Lauren follows and takes out a cigarette, ‘Oh and Emma, don’t think I haven’t noticed your eye! I’m too drunk right now to fight you on this, but we WILL discuss on Monday’.

It’s raining now. Thank god she brought her umbrella, Emma thinks - It could’ve ruined her make-up. 

Emma’s Uber arrives. She exhales as she sits in the warmth of the car, grateful to have gotten through the night without too many difficult questions. Now she just needs to pacify Lauren when she see’s her at work on Monday. She can do that.

Emma arrives home. Paul is sat in the same place as earlier. She hears Lauren voice in her head; ‘Just let him go. He will never change’. She thinks back to when she first met Paul, he was kind and thoughtful and he made her feel alive. Paul was successful and he made Emma feel successful too. Over the years, Paul slowly stripped away all of Emma’s self esteem. Abuse doesn’t start overnight. It started with sharp comments about Emma’s weight, then her lack of ambition, her greying hair and moved swiftly onto Paul restricting Emma’s eating, budgeting her money and before she knew it, she was picking herself up off the floor after one of his violent rages that sent his fist flying into her face, shattering teeth and bruising skin. He was having affair, most notably with the receptionist at his office. She was, predictably, 22 years old. Emma knew about each and every affair, every sordid meet in a hotel and all of his dating profiles. It wasn’t worth the confrontation. Besides; she was boring and ugly and unlovable. Who could blame him. That’s what he would say.

‘Sorry I’m late, I know it’s a work night. You didn’t need to wait up’

Paul sits still in his chair, saying nothing. 

‘Everyone was asking after you. Maybe next time you can come? Save me from the boring conversations with The Smith’s - she spent 20 minutes talking about that dog of theirs. You’d have made an excuse to get away, I just sit and nod and it never ends. How was your day?’ No response from Paul.

Looking into the mirror, Emma gently removes the make-up that she had carefully applied to her eye. Lying doesn’t come naturally to her, but she’s had to accept that she has little choice.

Getting into bed, she feels the lonely space beside her. Paul is still downstairs. She often sleeps alone now.

*****

Emma awakes. Makes her coffee and avoids Paul all morning. He’s still in his chair, nothing has changed but she can’t face looking at him today; her hangover is bad enough without dealing with the inevitable judgment. Despite her best efforts to avoid him, the smell is getting bad now. Emma shuts the kitchen door so that she can eat her crumpets without the scent which is getting more pungent by the day.

Emma finds herself in front of the mirror yet again. Lauren has demanded that they meet before work on Monday and Emma agreed, she’s learned that Lauren often gets what she wants and is a hard woman to dissuade. Lauren has chosen a cafe not too far from here, the coffee is good, at least!

Now, Emma looks at her face. She does her make-up, trying to remember what colours she mixed last night. It can’t look too different or Lauren will ask questions. What size was the bruise? God, she should have taken a photo, she thinks, so that she could compare and make sure she maintains consistency. Fuck it, it’ll do. 

On her way out, she grabs her umbrella and sprays herself with perfume. She looks toward Paul and gasps as she see’s the sight before her. God, people decompose faster than she had anticipated. His clothes are now sagging off of him as his flesh deteriorates. Emma moves closer, bracing herself against the smell that surrounds him. ‘Bye darling, I’m off out now.’ He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t hit her. He sits quietly and lets her leave. She’s felt so free since their last fight, the fight that ended in him slumped in his chair having taken a hit to the head from a candelabra… Emma hadn’t known she had it in her. For the first time in a decade, he sat with half a smile on his face as she existed in her own life. She could eat what she wanted, say what she wanted and go where she wanted all whilst he sat and for the first time in said decade, she was in control of her own destiny. For the first time in a decade, her face was free from bruises - this, she knew, would raise the most questions of all.

She knows her time is running out, but she is reveling in this feeling. She is desperate for another day where she can pretend to have the life, the relationship, that she had grieved for. She knows that soon she will be found out, that he will be taken away and she will be under control again.

Soon, maybe. But she’s not ready to let him go yet.