The Purple Room.

Stop. I remember that I am not supposed to go in this room. It’s just that I can’t remember why. My fingers loiter on the door handle. It’s locked. If only I had the key. I keep thinking about my father’s decanter in the drawing room. It’s a hazy memory but it’s the only one that I have.

Go. My father is asleep on the brown leather armchair; his newspaper has dropped to the floor. I tiptoe by and quietly search around the decanter. The key is behind it, on the silver tray. I glide back to the hallway.

Stop. The key almost burns in my hand, I don’t like the way it feels within my sweaty palm. I shouldn’t have it. I should go and put it back. I know that I should not enter the locked room. It’s just that I can’t remember why.

Go. I’m tired of being told what to do, of being an adult but still having my mother choose my clothes and brush my hair. I put the key inside and hold my breath. I close my eyes in case I see something bad, something that I don’t want to really see.

Stop. What could be in here? Why can’t I remember? I’m frightened and my hand hesitates now that the key has fully turned.

Go. I will only find out if I go inside. I poke the door open a little, wide enough for my left foot to fit inside but not far enough for me to see. I feel around for the light switch and flick it on.

Stop. I feel uneasy. I feel sick. I feel as though someone has their hands gripped around my neck and that I can’t breathe. My head hurts and I feel cold. I think I might be coming down with a bug.

Go. I walk into the room and gently close the door behind me. Maybe it is okay if I don’t open my eyes? How scary can this room really be?

Stop. It is scary; it’s full of terror and a huge palpable agonising pain. I shouldn’t be here. I just can’t remember why.

Go. I must do it. I must take a peek. Suddenly, I remember being a tiny girl; I’d got into trouble for sneaking into next door’s garden. My mother apologised to Mrs. Drabble with a red face and told her that I had always been an inquisitive child. Sometimes I feel that I will always be that little child, I don’t think that I am allowed to grow up. I can’t explain it.

Stop. I want to open my eyes but the churning mixture of half memories keeps them scrunched tightly shut. I want to open them. I want to open them. I want to open them.

Go. I’m in the purple room. I remember the purple room. The purple room is lovely and pretty. The walls are lilac and mauve and the curtains have tiny daisies on them. I think this was my room, when I was a little girl. Why am I not allowed in here? Why did I change rooms? There’s my rocking horse and my dolls. I pick up the floppy fabric doll with the smiling face and blonde woollen hair. I’m sure this was my favourite, but I have forgotten her name.

Stop. Something’s not right. Something is wrong with the purple room. It’s covered in dust and it smells funny. I don’t think anyone has been in here for a long time. I don’t understand what is going on. I’m breathing too quickly and I need to slow down. My heart is beating wildly.

Go. I glance at the book spines on the case, I remember all of them. I used to be such a bookworm. I wonder why I don’t read anymore.

Stop. My own reflection startles me. I see myself in the dusty old dressing table mirror.

Go. I have to laugh at my silliness. I am being ridiculous, I’m in the lovely purple room with teddy bears and other loves and precious things. I should be rejoicing the return of my childhood treasures. When did I become such a jittery jumpy girl?

Stop. My mother’s at the door and she looks cross with me. She asks me what I think I’m doing.

Go. I tell her that this is my purple room and that she can’t keep me from it anymore.

Stop. She shakes her head, her eyes look tired, and her face looks blotchy. She tells me that this is not my room, that it belongs to Lydia.

Go. I laugh in her face. I tell her that nobody here is called Lydia, she doesn’t exist.

Stop. My mother weeps into a sodden tissue full of holes. She tells me that Lydia is dead; she whispers that I can’t remember.

Go. Who was Lydia? Who was Lydia? I scream out the words until my chest hurts.

Stop. Your twin sister, my mother says, shaking her head. We went through all this yesterday, when I came into the purple room.

Go. I tell her that I haven’t been in the purple room for years, nobody has, and I scrape a thick layer of dust from the shelves to show her. I tell her that these are my things.

Stop. She quietly informs me that I came here yesterday and that we had the same conversation. Lydia was my twin sister; she died when we were seven years old.

Go. I sob. I tell her that I don’t remember.

Stop. She says that it’s because my brain won’t let me, it’s damaged, I’m sick, because I pushed Lydia out of the window after a petty squabble.

Pause.

Rewind. I see it. I see a little girl with the same face and honey blonde hair as I had. I see her at an awkward angle on the floor below. I remember peering out of the window and my mother’s scream that didn’t end until after that first year.

Stop.

Go. But this is my doll, I say.

Stop. No, my mother says, it belonged to Lydia; all of this belonged to Lydia. She says that it’s late and that I should take my pills and go to sleep. She says that she’s picked out a soft cotton nightgown for me and that she will brush my hair and sing my favourite song if I come now.

Go. I let my mother lead me out. She closes and locks the door behind us. I take my pills and feel weary. I long to place my head on the pillow and sleep. The soothing brush strokes make me feel warm. My mother tucks me into the bed sheets. She tells me not to go into the purple room again.

Stop. What purple room, I yawn.

Stop.

Better The Devil You Know.

I normally slam the door on cold callers, even the needling charity ones with clipboards and faux fixed grins, but this was one was gorgeous, so I invited him inside for a cup of tea.

He had the most beautiful eyes, dark, mischievous, irresistible. And that smile, so sultry, teasingly wicked. He talked about a special offer, a £6.66 monthly direct debit, something about a soul and eternity. I was too distracted to listen properly; he made me want to wear red lipstick and whisper obscenities into his ear.

I signed the dotted line.

The Long, Hot Summer.

I was a little girl on a grey rainy Sunday afternoon, playing with my Barbie dolls, I remember it so vividly. My mum switched the television channel over and I moaned at her, claiming that I had been watching the cartoons but we both knew that wasn’t true. A film had just started on the other side, this was a familiar and frequent weekend event, my mum would watch an old movie as I played with my toys. I would pretend that I wasn’t interested but I would rapidly get swept up in the dark and haunting Bette Davies, I’d gasp in shock when Clark Gabel frankly didn’t give a damn about the beautiful Vivienne Leigh and I would smile at the comedy and pure oozing glamour of Marilyn Monroe.

I was half dressing my dolls in ostentatious ball gowns and half watching ‘The Long, Hot Summer’, until I saw him, and then I forgot all about Barbie’s prior engagement with Ken. Those eyes. I stared at the screen; I had never seen such eyes, the most dreamy, delicious, piercing, scene stealing blue. I felt myself melting and when he appeared shirtless, with a bronzed chiselled torso and those eyes, my knees wobbled and I felt a peculiar sensation in my stomach. I was seven years old and hopelessly in love. I was hooked by the plot, I partly wanted Ben and Clara to live happily ever after, but I partly despised Clara because she had those eyes looking at her and loving her.

My eyes scanned the film credits once it was over. Paul Newman, I whispered his name and a crimson spider crept up my hot freckled face. I was mesmerised. My mum told me that Ben and Clara were married in real life, Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. My mum always knew how to piss on my chips. I have never since cared for Joanne Lucky Pants Woodward.

I felt so very lovesick that I couldn’t eat my tea, which was strange as Sunday dinner was my favourite. My mum sent me to bed without dessert and just this once, I didn’t care, even though it was Sara Lee’s chocolate gateaux. I closed my eyes and placed myself within the film, his sultry voice called my name.

After that, I developed an obsession with eye colour. I checked everyone I came into contact with, all the children at school, the milkman, the customers in the tiny local shop, the passengers on every bus, but nobody had eyes as blue as Paul Newman.

Brown eyed boys couldn’t delight me. I had the blues about those blues. I wanted to look into the eyes of a boy and see an ocean, have my breath taken away, find my own soul there. I wanted to find the bluest eyed boy and make him mine. I wanted to be Clara. I wanted my own long, hot summer.

I grew up, became a confused teenager, a time that I did not relish. None of my friends understood my unusual quest, they were happy decorating their pencil cases with stickers of floppy haired band members in jeans, but it wasn’t what I wanted.

As spring arrived, along with my sixteenth birthday, hormones fell with April showers; lust arrived with baby pink blossom buds. I had stirrings and yearnings and longings and needs. I was frustrated, empty and so desperate to be touched that I would lie on my bedroom floor, like a wretched wild wounded animal, for hours, wailing, feeling it as a palpable pain.

The boys in my school year must have felt similar pangs because, all of a sudden, they talked to my chest and looked at my legs and begged me to meet them in the evenings, to go to the park and kiss badly against an uncomfortable tree trunk. I tried it, I wanted to be kissed, tasted, devoured, but I couldn’t feel the magic, the butterflies had died, nothing danced and teased and tickled within my abdomen. I still wanted those blues. I wanted a man, a man with a chiselled torso who would stand, half naked, outside my bed chamber and seductively call out my name. I still wanted Ben. I still wanted Paul Newman and the longest, hottest summer.

College was a riot, pubs, nightclubs, lager, spirits, too many late nights and early mornings. I went along with the frolics and played my part but there was something always missing. I never saw those eyes, those exotic blues.

University was even better, a diverse and eclectic mix of new and old friends, different experiences and perspectives, being a tiny goldfish in a vast yet noisy sea. I even found a film club which was wonderful. We’d all meet up, drink wine and watch old movies. One night, we watched ‘The Long, Hot Summer’ and I felt ill with desire, dizzy, nauseas, hot and sticky. I was seven years old again, transported back in time to my mum’s living room, silly, foolish, lovesick and in awe.

Now I am thirty six and I look around at all my friends, cosy, coupled, married, mothers and fathers. I am still alone, untouched, burning, and still waiting for those blues. I wonder sometimes, if I should have settled, would I be happier. I worry sometimes; where are those blues and will I ever find them. But I so want and need those blues and so I wait.  

Peacocks and Butterflies.

Deidre’s mother was a peacock: beautiful, colourful, breath-taking. Deidre’s sister was a butterfly: graceful, elegant, appealing. Deidre was neither of these things; she was a shadow, a black and white faded photograph of herself. She felt lost amongst their pungent perfumes and social gatherings.

Deidre didn’t fit in with the girls at work either, with their laughter, chatter, luminous cocktails and bubblegum pink lipstick. They didn’t bother with her; sometimes they forgot she was there.

Deidre had often dreamed of being a peacock or a butterfly but her shape was all wrong for electric blue mini skirts and scarlet high heels, so she became a caterpillar, eternally cocooned within her drab grey cardigan.

Deidre was shocked when Graham from the sales team had invited her out for a drink, how had he noticed her when she’d done such an excellent job of camouflaging into the office walls?

Two glasses of Merlot into the date, Deidre explained to Graham about peacocks and butterflies. He smiled with kind eyes and held her hand. He told her that she was a wise owl, much more impressive and higher up the pecking order. He told her that she should forget about the peacocks and butterflies, you have to unwrap a present to find the joy.

She asked him about the birds and the bees and he took her home and loved her gently. She shook off the moths and transformed into a contented little skylark, singing and dancing, their private duet.

Office Memo.

Nobody else would get away with it, not even Johnny Depp, not even Brad Pitt, but somehow, like magic, Adam can do whatever he wants, especially with the ladies. It’s almost like he was put on this planet to keep husbands on their toes. He strides into the office building, kisses the blonde receptionist full on the lips, grabs Sue’s ass in the lift, she backs into his hand. He’s had all of them in accounts. Maggie, his PA, wears short skirts and unbuttoned blouses, her breasts jiggle as she walks and spill over the top when she bends down. Everyone wants a piece of Adam and he has enough to go around, he’s generous like that.

Adam is the biblical first man, peeling back Eve’s fig leaves and touching her just there. Adam is whoever you want him to be, in the back of a cab, under the restaurant table, in your marital bed. He just snaps his fingers and you come running like teenage Beatles fans, like starving cannibals, like sex hungry zombies. Adam loves his life.

What it is about him that provokes this illicit response? Is he attractive? Sure, he has those dreamy peepers and that wicked and hypnotic slow smile. Is it the way he dresses? Probably, in his fine grey suit which belongs in a page of an expensive and glossy fashion magazine. Is it his way with the words? More than likely, he’s seductive with his language, sensual and then sometimes outright dirty. Words are whispered closely into a tickled ear, hot breath lingers on a sensitive neck, and the shivers are delicious and delightful. Is it his confidence? Yes, I do believe this is the key. Adam knows that he can have you, take you and devour you, so he does. The deed is done, he clinks the door shut before your head even remotely catches up with the rest of your tingling body. There’s a drop of swagger, a spoonful of cocky and a large helping of arrogance. You know that he’s a bad boy; maybe you could be the one to tame him? God, you’re all so predictable. But on you go, in frenzied drones, falling at his feet, asking him what aftershave he wears, giggling like idiots, flickering your eye lashes, offering up your kohl doe eyes and licking your pink lips. He’ll never change.

I know that because I’m his fucking wife.

     

Susan

Little Lorna Mae suffered with night terrors; her parents had bought her a large doll with a pale face, blinking blue eyes and blonde ringlets. She was called Susan, it said so on the floral box. Susan was supposed to make Lorna Mae happy and, hopefully, stop the hideous dreams and images that crashed around her mind during the night. But Lorna Mae didn’t much care for Susan; she didn’t like the odd clinking sound that her dead eyes made when they snapped shut. So she placed her in the white trunk, with the rattles and other baby toys she had grown out of.

As midnight approached, Lorna Mae’s small six year old frame jolted upright. Her parents rushed in, wearily clasping dressing gowns around their bodies and went through the motions. Lorna Mae’s eyes remained wide open as her brain was caught in a horrific trance. She couldn’t wake up, nor go back to sleep, so she cried and screamed, not even recognising her tired mother and father. There was nothing they could do but hold her, forgive the pushes and scratches she bestowed upon their faces, and find Susan the doll, tucking her up close underneath the lavender bedspread.

Susan the doll wet the bed. Lorna Mae knew it couldn’t have been her, her pyjamas were bone dry and she hadn’t done that since she was three. Susan had a mean smile on her stupid face, she looked different today. She tried to explain but her mother scolded her, slapped her legs for uttering silly fantasies and wicked lies, as she bundled the stinking sheets into the washing machine. She wasn’t allowed dessert, which made her cry as it was strawberry cheesecake, and she stomped up to her bedroom to stew and sulk.

Niceties returned with kisses and the usual bedtime story at 7 o’clock. She brushed her teeth and snuggled into the freshly laundered bed linen. Susan the doll was placed beside her head on the pillow. Her eyes snapped shut and made that clink noise that made Lorna Mae feel a little bit sick. As soon as she heard her mother’s steps on the creaky stairs fade, and the living room door softly shut, she got up, stuffing Susan back into the trunk and pitter-pattered back to bed.

She fell asleep, sucking her thumb despite the regular chastisements from her mother. It helped for a while, she felt soothed and serene in her dream time. But the monsters in her head awaited their nightly frolic and so they arrived, laughing and closing down the hatch behind them. Susan was there, devilish grin, pulling at her bed covers and this was just too much for her brain to behold. Like clockwork, in trooped her exhausted parents, securing her down as she thrashed and sobbed.

‘It’s Susan,’ wept Lorna Mae.

‘She’s here, tucked up next to you, just where I left her,’ explained her mother, stroking her hair.

‘I hid her away. She came back. She’s alive,’ the little one cried.

‘Don’t be silly, you’re just having another bad dream.’

‘I don’t like her,’ Lorna Mae sobbed, salty tears racing down her flushed cheeks. Her mother snapped.

‘I don’t know what to do with you any more; you’re such an ungrateful girl.’ Her mother bustled out of the room, slamming the door, leaving her young daughter trembling and afraid. This wasn’t a night terror. Lorna Mae was wide awake.

She looked down at Susan, who had a wet face, like she’d been crying too.

‘I don’t want the bad dreams. I don’t want them to be cross with me,’ she announced.

Susan smiled.

‘I wish I was you,’ she added.

‘Do you really want to be me?’ asked the doll, causing Loran Mae to gasp in shock and jump out of bed.

‘Well?’ asked Susan.

Lorna Mae considered the question.

‘Yes I do,’ she replied sadly.

‘Go to sleep now. You’ll get your wish,’ beamed the doll.

Susan clinked her heavy lids shut. Lorna Mae thought that she looked like a dead person with her rigid arms sticking out by her sides. She shivered, pulling the covers up to her chin and closing her eyes.

When her mother came in to wake her for school, Lorna Mae saw her body rise from slumber and leave the room. She tried to follow, but as she had become the doll, she was rooted to the spot. She watched her mother make the bed, but she couldn’t speak to her. It was a very long and lonely day.

When Susan, in Lorna Mae’s human flesh and gingham uniform, returned from school, she was full of joy, chattering non-stop about what a wonderful day she’d had, skipping in the yard with friends, how juicy the lunchtime apple tasted. She noticed the wet face of the doll, but pretended that she hadn’t.

At bedtime, her mother came to tuck them in, Susan said, oh so sweetly ‘I’m sorry for what I said about the doll, I do like her really, and she is helping. I don’t think I will have a bad dream tonight.’ Lorna watched a beautiful smile emerge on her mother’s face.

‘Goodnight darling,’ she whispered, kissing the top of Susan’s head, padding out on to the landing, feeling hopeful.

‘I’m going to be a much better you,’ Susan vowed, rolling over and settling into an undisturbed sleep. Lorna Mae clinked her eyes shut and her thoughts finally melted away.

There was much fuss and happiness in the morning, her parents relished their first uninterrupted sleep in a long time. They celebrated, decorating Susan with new pretty hair bows and kisses; they made her pancakes with golden syrup for breakfast, which had never happened before.

As the week went on, Susan slept peacefully. Lorna Mae’s parents looked years younger and she had to agree, Susan did do a much better job.

‘Mummy, thank you for Susan, she really helped. But I don’t think I need her any more. I thought it might be nice to give her away, so another little girl can love her?’

‘Oh my sweet girl, what a lovely idea. If you’re sure, we can drop her off at the charity shop in the morning?’

‘I’m sure Mummy.’

Susan went to school. Lorna Mae was left in the doorway of the charity shop. She felt dizzy, seeing all the legs and feet of the people rushing by, so she clinked her eyes shut.

The next thing she was aware of was a small girl prising them open.

‘What a beautiful doll! Mum, can we buy her? Please?’ she begged, stroking Lorna Mae’s curls adoringly.

The little girl’s mother patted her enormous belly full of baby aware that, any day now, her daughter would feel rather left out and envious at the excitement of the new arrival.

‘Yes Hannah, it can be your special present from the baby.’

Lorna Mae smiled.

Friday Night. Saturday Morning.

His aftershave lingers,

Smiles, embraces, sings,

Upon my satin sheets.

I inhale the masculine scent,

Musky, dizzying, sex.

It’s as though he’s still here.

The film runs in my mind,

Repeat, pause, play,

A flashback of desire.

I imagine his hands on me,

Strong, yet, gentle,

Toe-curling arousal.

I remember his skilled tongue,

Licks, tastes, devours,

And I sigh his name out loud.

I recall his fleeting visit,

Disappointment, hurt, pain,

That he couldn’t stay the night.

I think of his wife,

Lucky, married, to him,

And envy stains my face.

I picture his children,

Giggling, siblings, innocence,

And my blood runs a little cold.

I wonder what I am,

Casual, Fridays, Orgasms,

I hoped for so much more.

I wake up,

He’s not mine, together, always,

And he never will be.