Bound – by Liz Evans
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She arrived early to register for class, this frothy little thing, squeezed tight into bamboo and Lycra, blowing into my Sunday session with the first snap of spring. New to yoga, clearly a stranger to self-discipline with her chatting and chirruping and lack of condition, her needs were obvious: containment, order, flexibility, strength. But when she gave me her name, I buckled. The pure white shock of it, after all these years, blinding me for a second; the knot of grief, loss and fury tightening.
‘I’m sorry – Howlett, did you say? And could I have your age and occupation too, please?’
Yes, Howlett. Valerie Howlett. Arts administrator. Age thirty-eight. That’s the one.
The room listed but I clung on, steadied myself, took down her details. She paid in full for the term and smiled gratefully as my fluttering hands tried to manage the receipt.
She settled on her mat and I studied her, noting the round shoulders, the thick ankles, the curved back. I watched her limp through the poses, forcing her slack little frame into one unfamiliar shape after another as I moved through the sequence, perhaps a little too fast for beginners today. And as the sweat spread across her vest like a fungal bloom, the initial insult of her appearance dissipated. Slowly, with her neck bulging and reddening, her breath growing heavy and laboured, I began to feel reassured, which I hadn’t anticipated. By the end of the class, she looked raw, as if she’d been peeled somehow, and as I watched her struggling to put her shoes on I sensed the unrolling of opportunity like a thick, red carpet in front of me. Of course, I thought. Why not?
Let me spell it out for you, Max. Let’s put you firmly in the loop.
That Valerie had no idea who I was, or where I’d been positioned in your life, did not surprise me. You shored up your privacy with fervour, jealously guarding those who had access to you, and cruel and unjust though it was, after nearly four years at your side, I too was rendered anonymous.
By the same token, Valerie wasn’t easy to find. At first, the internet gave nothing away. No Facebook trails, no Google images, not one social media breach of security. All I had to go on was a name next to yours at some undisclosed London address in directory enquiries, and the memory of a shadowy profile in a car, curls pressed up against the glass, on the day she drove you away. Still, I am nothing if not persistent, and eventually my searches turned up a LinkedIn profile. A brief professional outline, a sketch of modest achievements; no photographs but, crucially, a location. Enough for me to place her in the picture.
I had moved to Bridgewell two months ago. A small, picturesque place near the larger market town of Exeford, a couple of hours southwest of London. I had come here for several reasons: peace, wide open spaces, clean air and, yes, Valerie – although I hadn’t anticipated encountering her so soon, and certainly not in the safety of my yoga class. But although she crossed my path unexpectedly, in a horrible twist of magic, I recovered myself, took a breath, adjusted my vision, and chose to focus on the distinct advantage afforded by my situation. Over those ensuing ninety minutes, my panic receded, and a sense of clarity and deep inner calm came over me, like a spiritual awakening. It might sound counterintuitive, but to me it was obvious. We could be close, Valerie and me. After all, we were connected.
It won’t surprise you to learn that she’s been easy to cultivate. She spins her warm, soft compliance like a cocoon, while I dole out the wisdom, offering advice about wrists, knees, posture; at times I even find her soothing, which disturbs me. But while I’m reflecting on that, the real question is, of course, what do I want with her?
And then there’s the other question. The city we shared was thick with summer haze after you’d gone and one night, walking through the weight of it all, my friend Belle confronted me.
‘Yes, but have you really lost what you think you’ve lost?’ she asked. I didn’t know what to say. The problem was I could never be sure of what I’d had. You didn’t make it clear, did you? But three and a half weeks ago, in a stuffy, provincial scout hall with the air full of sweat and cheap body spray, I realised the answers were creeping towards me. If I could find out what Valerie had gained, I would better understand my loss.
I knew you were no longer in her life, but while this might have given me reason to disengage, the truth is I wouldn’t have gone near her if the two of you were still involved. I couldn’t bear you to see me like this, so exposed in my longing, your memory embedded in me like a thorn. No, she’s a much safer proposition without you. Deactivated, disabled. Shut down. Call it what you will.
Either way, nothing can change the cold, stark fact of you leaving, of you choosing her over me.
So, I’m attending to her with care. I’ve curated her personalised yoga practice, including a restorative session, with her multiple needs in mind, and I’m pursuing social opportunities after class, creating the chance for conversations that have slowly been reaching beyond lower back care and breathing techniques to beat insomnia. I’ve been edging my way towards her. I still haven’t got to the child properly, but I’m up to home visits now so it’s only a matter of time. Over tea in that lurid red kitchen of hers, where the plants sprawl across the windowsill and the misshapen pottery glints in the sun, we dunk her sugary biscuits into our cheerfully striped mugs, and I wait patiently for the banter to give way to confidences. I give a little in return of course, but I’m careful; I can’t afford to slip up.
So far, so good. She doesn’t suspect a thing.
Sometimes the cacophony is hard to bear. But lately, Max, I’ve been able to look into the chasm that opened up between you and me, and I’m finding value down there in the shadows. Finally, my questions are starting to shift and turn, and I’m sure it won’t be long now before I have an answer or two. My nesting instinct has been damaged, as you know. My domestic bones are malformed and prone to breakage. But Valerie is like a hearthstone, warm and comforting, plain and solid. Welcoming, inviting, waiting to be trodden on.
Today, I finish work early, so I pay her an impromptu visit on my way home, and amid the reproduction tiles and the distressed timber, she talks about Iona. Apparently, motherhood’s been the making of her, even though she’s done most of it on her own.
‘It’s bloody hard sometimes,’ she says, the edge of her sleeve trailing in a tiny spill of tea. ‘And lonely. That’s the worst thing about it. You don’t get a break, and there’s no one to moan at when everything goes wrong, and that can be bloody terrible actually. But you know what?’
What, Valerie? Do tell.
‘This single-parent thing has turned me into Wonder Woman.’
‘I can’t imagine you any other way,’ I say. After all, how do you take someone else’s lover without a sense of your own superpowers? ‘And you’re definitely doing wonders with Iona. You should be proud. I would be. She’s gorgeous.’ I mean that.
I first met Iona in Bridgewell library, during half-term. Valerie caught me unawares again, bringing her daughter in for story time one morning, not long after I started assisting Jane. It was all there: your green eyes and honey-blond hair, Valerie’s curls and upturned nose, combined in that small face. As I waited to make my debut in the storyteller’s chair, I watched her, and although it hurt, I found myself wondering how my strong nose would sit under those cat’s eyes in place of her little snub one, how my fine, pale strands would frame your square jaw instead of Valerie’s mess of ringlets, how my angular frame would look beneath your straight shoulders rather than those soft, fleshy curves. What would our children have looked like?
I always wanted a daughter.
And now, here, in the afternoon haze, Valerie once again knocks me off balance.
‘So, what about you then?’ she asks. ‘Do you think you’ll have kids one day?’
I should have seen it coming. My breath catches, but I rally, look her in the eye, and snap off her transgressive line of inquiry with a smile.
‘Well, I’ve thought about it of course, but it’s a question of timing, isn’t it? And I’m not one to rush into things. So, when are you next coming to class? I’m running another restorative session on Sunday, if you can make it.’
Subject closed, I sip my tea while Valerie opens the calendar on her phone and makes noises about babysitters. I can see from here how tense she is. I try to concentrate, to stay focused as she taps and fusses, but the questions rise unbidden.
How was it, Max, after all that swearing off fatherhood, to find yourself confronted with a pregnancy? What – and be precise now – did you say to Valerie when she made her big announcement? Did you pull out a number for the clinic? Was that your first thought? Or was it straight to Selfridges for a Bugaboo and a lavish bouquet of roses? Was it Valerie’s dog-like devotion that pinioned you to those first few months, past the denial and the date of no return? Or were you somehow on board, finally able to believe in yourself the way someone else did?
Is that why I failed? For not believing in you enough?
The pain drags as anger uncoils inside me, and the bitterness sticks in my throat, but I swallow it down. I think of school runs, sleepless nights, tantrums. The drudge and grind of parenting. You clearly didn’t manage that, did you, Max?
The kettle whistles, summoning me back to the present, as Valerie leaps up, rattles the caddy, and another tray appears. All these pots of tea symbolise my persistence. Finally, it’s starting to pay off.
‘I’d love to come to that class, Kate; last week I felt like I’d spent two hours on a massage table at the end of it. But I’m having dinner with this guy on Saturday, and I really can’t ask Jude to sit with Iona again the following day. She’ll be at her dad’s next week, though. I’ll come then.’
The sacrifice of the single parent. How perfect. And not only that. Valerie’s heightened complexion betrays the significance of her date, so I judge the distance, assess the risk, and step in lightly with an offer to babysit tomorrow evening. After all, it’s not as if I’ve never met Iona, and it would be such a shame if Valerie had to miss the class. If this Jude, whoever she is, can do Sunday afternoon instead, I’d be delighted to help. Truly.
‘Really? Would you? Oh, that’d be great. Are you sure?’
No, Valerie, I’m not sure. I’ve never looked after a child before. Children don’t factor in my life beyond the photographs on my half-sister’s Facebook page. She lives in Australia, near her mother, so those long-limbed sun-kissed creatures scattered across my screen are strangers, like the rest of my family. But how hard can it be, putting someone to bed?
‘Of course, I’d love to. Just let me know what Jude says.’
I leave her to the dishes and her convoluted social calendar, and head home to my life of clean lines and bare surfaces. And as I knew it would, the text arrives within the hour.
Yep, Jude’s cool! Honestly Kate, I cldn’t be more gr8ful. Could u b here @ 6.30? I wont be late back, its just dinner with a new colleague who needs some pointers. Thanks a million! Xx
The pleasure will be all mine, believe me. Chocolate ice cream, face paint, nail polish, a movie on the iPad – I’ll be the perfect companion. Childless, complicit, illicit. And when Iona’s fast asleep, I’ll slip into Valerie’s room and take a thorough look. There must be something of you stashed away in all that chaos. Inside a memory box or a journal, lying forgotten in a cabinet perhaps, or buried deep in the dust beneath her bed. Maybe in the antique chest, under the piles of cushions. On top of the bureau, obscured by the army of pot plants. At the back of the wardrobe, under the books on the bedside table, in a shoebox, on a shelf, in a cupboard. Somewhere, something, anything. The tiniest of clues. My fingers tingle at the thought.
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This is an edited excerpt from Liz Evans’ forthcoming novel, Catherine Wheel, published 30 July.
Image: The Nix Company - Unsplash
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