thelesbianlifestyle.com

Endings and Beginnings

Why do people invest everything they have, all their time, energy, money, emotions, in something as volatile as love? She asks herself as she moves dazedly from room to room of the silent, empty house. Why do we even attempt to try and establish a future, a home, a life, a partnership that we at one time or another, believe will last forever, with something as fickle as another human being? At the door to the living room she pauses, gazing around in complete bafflement. How to even begin dividing things up? How to start the soul destroying process of, ‘that’s mine’ ‘you can have that’ or ‘we bought that together so…’

Their entire lives are encompassed in this place, this house they called a home, filling it with material possessions, laughter and music, voices sometimes raised in an argument, sometimes in the passion and ecstasy of their love. This place they lavishly decorated together, they spent days, weeks, working late in to the night, agreeing on colour schemes, the style of the furniture, carpet or laminate floors? Fabric or leather sofas? Curtains, blinds or both? What would you prefer? Deciding that she cannot face starting with this room that holds all their books, CDs, DVDs, photo albums crammed full with memories of a life they until recently shared unquestioningly, she turns and heads for the kitchen. This room should be easier. Items that are less personal to them are kept here, who’s bothered about pots and pans?

Heels click on cold tiles. At the counter she unpacks a cardboard box and opens cupboards, taking out crockery, cutlery, blender, weighing scales, steamer, sandwich toaster, smoothy maker, cocktail shaker. She takes some of the plates, cups and bowls kept for everyday use, leaving some behind in case she is accused of not sharing everything equally. The best set of crockery had been bought for them as a house warming gift by her in-laws, so she supposed she should leave those too. As she wraps the things she wants in soft tissue paper, taking extra care, memories of all the parties they held here come pouring out of the cupboards and crowd the kitchen. Preparing food together to lay on the buffet table in the dining room, choosing music that would have everyone dancing by ten O’clock, then rushing around upstairs showering, shaving, exfoliating and moisturising, deciding what to wear, black and silver or brown and cream? Asking herself why she bought that dress that she never chose and that sat at the back of the wardrobe with its tags left on. Then which shoes? Discarded outfits on the bedroom floor, now what colour of make-up? Which set of jewellery? Always feeling half dressed when the first guests arrived that little bit too early, heading downstairs, fixing drinks, and trying to act as though she’d been ready and waiting for at least an hour. Everyone loved their parties, they said so. They were the types of gatherings where people who were strangers and thought they would have nothing in common at the start, would be deep in conversation by the end of the night, reluctantly finishing off drinks, and then exchanging numbers or arranging to meet for coffee before the exhausted and inebriated hosts coaxed them gently towards the front door, never before two in the morning. This was the type of house where people made friends, formed long lasting relationships, wanted to return to again and again for one reason or another. How many times had she heard, ‘we first met at one of your parties you know.’ But the parties would be different now. They would each hold their own, and guests would have to decide which to go to, who they preferred out of the two of them. And if they went to both, they would take care not to mention the other party to their host, in fear of causing offence where none was meant. How incredibly awkward.

Leaving the box open on the kitchen worktop she makes her way upstairs. Everything in the study will have to be dismantled and moved later. Her desk top computer, stereo system, TV, DVD player, leather backed chair. They can wait. For now she needs to pack her clothes, toiletries, things she uses from day to day. On the landing she hesitates before almost timidly pushing the bedroom door open an inch or two, until a breeze from the open window takes it and flings it wide for her. The reality of what they are about to do becomes overwhelming in this room, probably because it’s the place where they opened so much of themselves up to one another, shared hopes, fears, fantasies, pillow talk, loving caresses both verbal and physical. How could they just leave it all behind? How could, after years of being together, existing as a unit could they simply just break apart. She could picture it now, an awkward meeting in the street six or twelve months later. Smiling shyly but politely at one another, maybe touching hands and pecking on the cheek as acquaintances often do. Inspecting one another to see who bares the most scars, evidence of yet another failed partnership. Asking superficial questions like, ‘how’s the family? Work going ok?’ etc etc. Not daring to pose the questions they both would so want to ask more than anything, ‘have you met some one else? Are you happy? Do you miss me? Shall I come home?’ She felt sick even at the thought of it. And yet it was she who had uttered the words which once spoken could not be unsaid. ‘I think we should split up. I don’t want to be with you anymore.’ Ridiculous of course because she did want them to be together, she didn’t want any of this. They just couldn’t go on the way they had been lately, or, if she is truthful, the way they had been for a long time. The arguments, the tears, pretending everything was ok when really it wasn’t, covering up, smoothing over the fact that they were slowly destroying each other piece by piece. She didn’t want that for them. She didn’t want there to be nothing left but pain and resentment. Better to leave while there was still love.

The room is a good size, large yet still cosy. There is a plush cream carpet on the floor, with a chocolate brown rug at the foot of the bed. The furniture is dark wood, they had gone out and chosen it together. Along the left hand wall there are two double wardrobes with draws underneath, and along the right hand wall there is a long dressing table that holds several varieties of face and body cream, perfume, deodorants, hair brushes and products, decorative candles and bowls of pot pouri, a make-up stand, a large leather jewellery case and in the centre, an oval shaped mirror made to look like a photo frame. The dressing table sits under a large window, whose curtains are made from thick heavy fabric, pulled back and tied with a velvet cord, and whose blinds are tilted at a 45 degree angle to let in the light. The bed, a modest double, lies in the centre of the room, the head of which rests against the far wall. The bed is again dark wood, and it is solid and heavy and the mattress is high. The bedding is a mixture of browns and cream colours, there is a chocolate throw at the bottom, and large soft cushions scattered here and there. On either side of the bed there is a small chest of draws. On the draws at her side of the bed is a cordless phone, a clock, a notepad and pen, a glass half filled with water, and a paper backed novel. The second chest is more sparse, holding only a clock and identical glass of water. Moving to the bed now, she sits tentatively on the edge, smoothing back the duvet, straightening the pillows. Surprisingly the material of the fabric is still warm to the touch, as though they have lain amorously together until the early afternoon sun had forced its way through a gap in the curtains, signalling them to rise, even if only to go down to the kitchen and make tea and toast. They would stand, just holding each other close until the toast popped up a golden brown. Then they would smile and kiss, and reluctantly break apart, and one would pour the tea while the other spread soft butter lavishly on hot toast. Those times had been domestic bliss and they no longer existed as they had been before. Last night they had sat facing each other over the kitchen table, a bottle of vodka between them, expressing the pain they felt through tears, imploring gestures and sometimes harsh words. Exhausted they had quit talking and gone up to bed at around three, wrapping themselves in one another’s arms, the duvet tight around them, clinging on for dear life to stop themselves from drowning in the river of anguish and loneliness that would flood them both with the impending separation. Somewhere deep down she knew that this was the best course of action to take. They weren’t suited to one another, and it didn’t matter how much they loved each other, their conflicts were ones that couldn’t be resolved over a cup of tea. But the knowledge doesn’t do anything to ease the pain of what she’s doing, and what she still must do.

Sighing, she gathers some resolve and pushing herself to her feet; she bends and pulls the large suitcase from under the bed. Hurriedly now she flings the doors of the left hand wardrobe wide and not bothering to sort out clothes she no longer wants she grabs coat hangers by the hand full, and flings them down until the case is half full. They used to go clothes shopping together, because she was so indecisive and could never decide what looked good and what didn’t. She would stand in the doorway of the fitting room, a half smile of anticipation on her face, wondering whether or not she had struck gold, asking, ‘well?’ She wondered who she would take with her now to go and buy clothes. Could she trust her friends to be honest enough about how she looked and not just say, ‘yeah that looks great’, about everything including things that really didn’t? Now come the shoes, coats, bags, scarves, her jewellery case, cologne and cosmetics. From the draws, her underwear, including the seductive sets bought for her as valentine’s gifts or just to make her smile. Could she ever bring herself to wear them for some one else’s hungry eyes to appreciate and probing hands to take off? She packed them anyway because, what was the alternative? Night ware, an old t-shirt spattered with the same paint that coats the walls downstairs, a pair of jeans that are two sizes too small, all go in the case. She simply can’t face dealing with them now. She is feeling panicky, claustrophobic all of a sudden, as though the house, realising what she is doing is shrinking, trying to prevent her from leaving it and everything they created there. With one last look around the room, she again moves to the bed, takes up the pillow that is not hers and puts her nose to it. With the smell of perfume, shampoo, the bodily cent of her lover come all the memories flooding back, and she places the pillow back on the bed and choking back tears, tries to hold that smell, those memories in her mind. This is what she wants to remember on looking back. The good times, the love-making, the affection, the happiness. Picking up her case she goes to the door and softly closes it behind her.

In the hallway she puts on her jacket and picks up her car keys. Everything else can wait, she can come back for the things she has left. They still have a long way to go, they have to think about putting the house on the market and they both have to find places to live. With her heart as heavy as her overflowing suitcase she pulls the front door wide, steps through it and locks it behind her. She loads the case and boxes in the boot of her car parked in the driveway, then stands for a moment looking up at the house. Their bedroom overlooks the back garden, and she is thankful that she cannot see in to it. Placing one trembling hand on to the brickwork of the building, she whispers goodbye.

Some time later a black BMW glides slowly down the street. The woman in the passenger seat is laughing at something the driver has said. She is holding something in her hand, a map? An address? Telling the driver to go slower she gazes through the window at the passing houses, and then lifts a hand to point. ‘That one,’ she says. A for sale sign is propped in the front garden. The driveway is empty, the car turns in, the engine dies. The woman eagerly jumps out, and stands, hands on hips staring up at the front of the house. They’ve arrived in good time, and while they wait for the estate agent they stand, arms wrapped around one another, giggling excitedly like children. When the agent arrives they are given a guided tour, the living room, kitchen, bathroom, study, ending in the master bedroom. It is a large room and their voices bounce off the walls and ceiling, reflecting the emptiness. The windows are blank and bare, the sunlight cascading in uninhibitedly warming the soft thick carpet. There are lines in the pile where there once must have been furniture. The estate agent gives them a few minutes to take everything in and goes down to the hallway. Their voices drift down to him as he stands in the doorway to the living room chewing hopefully on the end of a pencil.

‘well darling, what do you think?’

‘What do I think? I think it was built especially for us. It’s perfect. Let’s ask how soon we can move in!’