“I came to you as a last resort.” Her voice trembles and a frown puckers up her forehead. I look away and steal a glance through my French windows. The garden’s a mess - part dug, part a wilderness of uncut grass, scattered with leaves and twigs. It bothers me. Should I deal with it? Or wait for more leaves to fall and even it out?
I turn to her, eyebrows raised in question, as she hovers at my living-room door. She’s waiting for me to invite her in, to ask her to sit down. She can wait.
We haven’t met before, but I know who she is. I’ve seen her on stage, and caught glimpses of her, out with Richard. She’s Emma Flynn, and like him, she’s in show-business. He’s described her to me, in tones of hushed triumph, as if he’s caught an angel in his net.
She’s nothing like me. I’m tall, strong, with bold features and hair the colour of coal - not Richard’s type at all. He likes the fair, delicate-flower sort. And who could fit the bill better than this elf-like creature, with her feminine ways and hair like pale silk floating to her shoulders? I can see she’s pregnant. The bulge is beginning to show. And I know its Richard’s child she’s carrying. He told me.
She takes a faltering step into the room, imploring me with her eyes. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve been to the police, but they’re no help. I’ve contacted his agent.” She throws up her hands. “He’s just vanished. I’ve phoned, called at his flat...”
I taste bittterness in my mouth. She must have his key then. He never gave me his key.
She comes towards me, plucks at my sleeve. “Please, I’m desperate.” She searches my face.”Do you have any idea where Richard is? I know he came here. He had to. To make you stop.” She purses her lips. “I was with him sometimes when you phoned. He guessed who it was, even when you put the receiver down as soon as he answered.”
Her voice rises. “You just wouldn’t let him go, would you? You were obsessed.”
I was. I know that now. So obsessed that just a sight of him would console me; the mere sound of his voice on the phone would make my day. That’s all there was towards the end: a disembodied voice or a tangle of wild hair glimpsed as he turned a corner. I drank them in: sight and sound, clung to them, as if my very existence depended on these brief reminders of the love I’d lost.
“We adored each other,” I say.
“He was attracted to you - at first,” she counters, “but you were too all-over-him, too needy.”
Her voice softens, becomes patronising. “You’re an attractive woman. You could have easily found someone else. But you wouldn’t leave him alone. You even stalked him.”
I sigh. True again, I followed him, time after time, slunk about outside him flat. I couldn’t cope with a single day without seeking him or hearing his voice.
It’s unsettling the way memories are playing up and down my spine. I’m recalling that terrible day when he ended it all. “I’ve got a role in the new musical, Bling. It’s going to be hectic for the next few weeks - rehearsing and so on. I won’t have time to see you, Ros. Sorry.”
“But I can help you,” I said. “We can meet after rehearsals and go over your script.”
He shuffled his feet then, looked down at the floor. “No. It’s best we stop seeing each other for a while. Give ourselves some space and a chance to meet other people. I’m not ready for anything long term.”
That’s when I gulped out my news, the news that had sent my spirit soaring. “I’m pregnant.”
He straightened, horror flooding his face. “You can’t be, surely? Weren’t you on the pill?”
“I thought you loved me, and it didn’t matter,” I choked out, drowning in a well of hopelessness.
“Good God, woman, I’m an actor, as often resting as working. I can’t support a child.”
He took out his diary. “How far gone are you?” He began flicking through it for the dates we’d met. “Are you sure it’s mine?”
A flame of fury shot up inside me.”You’ll have to get rid of it.”
“No!” It had been the fulfilment of a dream, having Richard’s child. How could I destroy it? But he had his way. Worn down by his begging and pleading, his persistent moans that I’d wreck his career, I got rid of the child.
During the weeks that followed, part of me seemed to die. I became like a zombie, dragging myself through life’s daily tasks. I ate little, took pills to sleep, and wondered how many I’d need to wave goodbye to it all.
Then, one evening, flicking through a newspaper, I came across a piece about Bling with a picture of Richard and other actors from the show. As I gazed at it, a sudden wriggle of hope started up. I tried to squash it but it grew and flourished like a flower turning to the sun. Perhaps he’ll see me again, I thought. I’ve kept away, given him space, got rid of the child. Perhaps now he’s missing me, but too proud to get in touch.
I phoned him, a smile in my voice. “It’s Rosalind, Richard. I saw your picture in the paper. The show’s doing well, it seems. I’m glad for you.”
He sounded happy, friendly. “Thank you, Ros. It’s only a short run though, and comes to an end in a few months. If you haven’t seen it, and you’re free, I can get you tickets for Monday night. Tell you what, why don’t I drop them in tomorrow on my way to the theatre?”
I caught my breath. I was going to see him again. Energy came bounding back like an eager dog. Already, I could feel his cheek brushing mine, smell his after-shave.
On the day he came, I wore my new earrings, and my black, slinky trousers. I heard him pushing the tickets through my letter-box and was just in time to catch him at the door and invite him in. He glanced quickly at his watch. “I can’t stay long, Rod, but, hey, it’s nice to see you.” He plonked himself on my sofa and peered at me. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Good.” I didn’t let on that, because of him, I hadn’t been eating.
“You’re okay now, I hope?” He glanced at the spot below my waist.
I shook off a pang of bitterness. “Don’t worry. I didn’t change my mind about the abortion.”
He did nothing to choke back his sigh of relief.
“And how’s your love-life?” I made my tone casual, even yawned as I asked the question. His whole face seemed to light up. “It’s amazing. At last I’ve found someone I really care about. Her name’s Emma, and she’s playing one of the main parts in the show. She’s a terrific actress.” His eyes grew dreamy. “I’m hoping to marry her.”
My heart sank. “Does she want to marry you?”
He sighed. “I’m not sure. She’s a bit out of my league.”
I smiled. There was hope for me yet then.
I phoned him frequently during the weeks that followed, anxious to find out how his romance was going. At first, his response was friendly enough, but soon his manner cooled, and I sensed an edge of impatience in his tone.
Finally, he burst out, “You must stop ringing, Ros. It’s too much. You and I are finished. If you’re thinking I might leave Emma and come back to you, you’re living in Cloud Cuckoo Land. It’s not going to happen.”
My voice grew tight. “I was only being friendly.”
I heard him sigh. “Sorry Ros. But you must stop ringing. Why don’t you get on with your own life, get involved in things? I want you to be happy. We both do.”
That’s when I changed tactics. Desperate for some sort of contact, however tenuous, I’d phone him, wait for him to speak, then listen in silence, till he swore and banged down the receiver. At the same time, I started following him and hanging about outside his flat.
I turn my mind to the present, to Emma. She’s stepping towards the French windows, looking out at the garden, hands pressed against her head. It’s making me uneasy.
“He had to change his phone number,” she carps. “He even thought of calling the police. But you know that already.” She swings round to face me. “Because he came to see you about it, didn’t he? To try and make you stop.”
I bite my lip. I remember it well. First, the curt phone call.”Are you in this evening? Bling’s finished its run, so I’m free. And Emma’s away, visiting her parents.”
He made himself comfortable on my green, upholstered chair, facing the French windows. He drew his tongue over his lips. “Listen, Ros” he began, “Emma and I have talked this over. You need help - counselling or something. The way you’re acting isn’t normal. And Emma’s getting nervous.” He paused, smoothed back his tangle of hair. “She’s pregnant, you know. She could lose the baby.”
“It’s yours?” I felt my stomach tighten. “Does that mean she’s going to marry you?”
“She’s coming round to the idea.”
“She could always have an abortion,” I snapped, “as I did.”
“She won’t. She’s a devout Catholic. And I’m glad. I really want this baby.”
So, he wants this baby. Anger tore at me. And hate. It built up like a furnace in my chest, choking out love, and spurring me into action. I jumped up, controlled the tremor in my voice, and put on a smile. “I’m so happy for you, Richard, and I’m sorry I made you cross. It won’t happen again.” I moved towards him.”Let’s forget the past, shall we, and celebrate the good news? I’ve got some champagne.”
I stepped behind him and reached into the cupboard where two bottles stood waiting for some special occasion. I drew one out...
Emma is still hovering at the French windows, staring ahead. I feel a throbbing at my temples.
“Don’t look at the garden, please,’” I say. “It’s a mess. Sit down, do.”
She perches at the edge of the chair Richard used to sit in, hands clasped, frowning. “I couldn’t be less interested in your garden,” she says. “My only concern is finding Richard.”
I give her a close look. “You’re not really in love with him, are you?”
She hesitates. “I’m very fond of him. I realise that now. And he’s nuts about me. We’re looking forward to this baby.” She looks across at me. Her eyebrows go up. “What’s happened to him, Rosalind? He wouldn’t just stop calling me. Not unless something was terribly wrong.” She throws her arms out in front of her, palms upward. “I know he came here. For God’s sake tell me where he is?”
I shrug and say, cruelly, “How do you know he hasn’t dumped you? He’s an actor, isn’t he, as often resting as working? Maybe he’s though twice about burdening himself with a child.”
She glares at me. “You’re wrong. He’s as keen on this baby as I am.”
She pauses, picks up her handbag and clicks it open.”I know you’ve got something to do with this. He visited you two weeks ago. It’s all here in his diary - date, time, everything. It’s his last entry. And since that visit, he hasn’t been seen.” She draws a black leather diary from her handbag and holds it out. “I found this at Richard’s flat yesterday. That’s why I came over. I shall take it to the police. They’ll probably want to question you.”
She shuts her handbag, jumps up and marches to the door.
“No wait.” I plunge after her. “You’re mistaken. Richard didn’t turn up that day. I hung about for him but he never arrived...” My voice trails off.
“I don’t believe you.” She looks at me through narrowed eyes, turns, and sweeps out. I watch her go. Then, knees trembling, I stumble back to the French windows, to stare into the garden.
My pulse is racing. She’ll go to the police, I know. And they’ll come here, asking questions, sniffing about. And if they go out there in the garden, there’s a chance they’ll ask about that dark patch at the bottom where the earth has been turned over: the place where I’ve buried him. My heart is heavy with remorse. “I didn’t mind to kill you, Richard,” I murmur through the glass. “I didn’t mean to smash your head with that champagne bottle. It was your talk of Emma’s baby that set me off. Your wanting it so much, when you made me kill mine. It sent me crazy.” I move away with a sigh. What’s the use? He can’t hear. He’s dead. And if they find the body, I’m sunk. God knows what my friends or my parents will say when they learn I’m a murderer. I make my way to the back of the house. I’d better do some digging, even it all up, before they come. I can say I’ve been planting bulbs ready for the spring.
I unlock the back door, put on my garden boots and go to the shed to fetch a spade. While I dig, I struggle to get my mind in order, to plan a way out of this mess. But all I can think of are Richard’s words, ‘I want this baby...I want this baby...’ They go over and over in my head, like an accompaniment to the thud of my spade turning over the soil.
