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I hid behind the bushes and waited until they emerged, arm in arm. Yeah, some people might call that sad - maybe even a little obsessive. So shoot me. I have a right to be anywhere I want to be, and if my business takes me down Acacia Avenue, then how can I help it? Okay, so my business involves viewing a house that I can't afford to buy, and not - strictly speaking - hiding out behind the bushes of the house ten doors down.
Like I said, shoot me.
So out they came, all giggly and kissy and generally sick making. Made me sick, anyway. I would've thrown up in their nice laurel bush if I thought the acid from my stomach would've killed it. Instead, I decided I'd pee in their pansies on the way out, if nobody was looking.
Okay, so that might sound a little bitter, I admit. Maybe even a bit excessive. But hell, it's not like I don't have reason! See, he used to look at me like that. He used to take my arm that way, and tuck my hand securely into his palm, and swing it slightly as we walked along. He used to peck me on the cheek when we hit the sunshine, used to twirl his fingers through my blonde hair when he took my head in his hands and kissed me, and told me that he loved me and it would be forever.
Lying bastard.
"All men are false, so says my mother," I sung under my breath as I watched them turn the corner and kiss their way out of sight. "They'll tell you wicked, loving lies. The very next evening, they'll court another... leaving you alone, to pine and sigh..." The old folk song was dead on. Or at least, it was dead on for this lying, cheating son of a bitch.
That wasn't very fair to his mother though. She'd always been nice enough to me.
I peered cautiously out from behind the bush, and then stood slowly, stretching my muscles, which were starting to cramp after ten motionless minutes of squatting amidst the foliage. I stamped my feet to shake free the loose dirt, then scuffed the ground to make sure there were no footprints left.
I knew exactly where they'd gone, and I knew exactly how long they'd be. He'd done it all with me, and inwardly I mocked him and despised him for not having any originality when it came to love. Yeah right, like he had anything to do with love... he was thinking with his pants again, and not very well at that.
I pulled on my gloves, fished around in his hanging basket and let myself in with the key which I knew would be there. He'd changed the locks since I left, but he hadn't changed anything else. Bloody hell, my umbrella was still in the porch, propped up against the wall. Bastard. I hadn't been good enough to keep in his bed, but he still had a use for my bloody umbrella. I bent down, and ripped all the spokes out.
The stairs beckoned me; I resisted for as long as I could, with one foot on the lower step, staring upwards into the darkness. "Who's there?" I remembered how his voice had been high and surprised as he'd heard the front door click shut behind me that afternoon, so long ago it seemed now. I hadn't expected him to be home, with it being late afternoon and all. Clearly, he hadn't expected me.
I put my hand on the pine bannister - we'd chosen it together, and I'd stripped it and revarnished it a few years ago when it started looking worse for wear. I noticed they'd varnished it again, a dark stain which gave the wood a reddish tinge. I touched it, and it felt cold. Aloof, somehow. I felt like I'd been whitewashed out of my own home.
"Jonathan?" I'd been surprised to hear him too, as I'd walked up the stairs on that Wednesday. Surprised, but pleased, and I'd dashed up the stairs to greet him with my customary kiss.
"Caroline? Is that you? What...?"
My old, worn stair carpet had gone and the walls had been repapered a modern cheery yellow colour. I hate yellow; such a fake colour, full of pretense, the brittle sham of sunlight and joy. It smelt fresh and new, and clean somehow, and the subtle scents of new wallpaper and paint almost suffocated me. I took off a glove, dragged my nails through the paper on my way up, leaving the faintest scratches - invisible to the naked eye, but I knew they were there. Yeah, I know it was petty, but you know what? It felt so good to do. There'd always be a little bit of me in this house, no matter how much they tried to decorate me out.
I'd run up the stairs on hearing his voice, heart leaping as it always did when I heard that rich voice, or smelt that tangy sweet smell that was uniquely him. It was halfway up when I'd heard the rustling of the bedclothes, and the scrabbling around and I'd wondered what was wrong. Stupid, naive, trusting fool.
I stood outside our bedroom door for long moments, conscious of the clock on the wall ticking down the precious minutes, knowing that I didn't have too much time left before they came back to their cosy little lovenest. I didn't want them to find the cuckoo squatting - they'd done such a good job of throwing me out. I hesitated, then pushed open the door and stood in the doorway, half expecting and half fearful that they'd redecorated that too.
It was just the same. And it was empty, stripped of all furniture save our bed. I laughed, despite myself. How sweet. He couldn't bring himself to have her - again - in our bed, so he'd moved into the spare bedroom. What a laugh. I closed my eyes against the images that flashed through my mind; the last time I'd seen him in this room, the sheets half covering his naked body as he'd tried to struggle out from under her. The room had reeked of them, and I could still smell her now; she'd marked him and her territory, and the whole house stunk of her now, even as she tried to mask it with her paint and her varnish. Like the tom cat's pee in the corner - no matter how many times you wash the carpet, the stench never goes away.
I put my glove back on, went into his room and pulled open the drawer where I knew he kept his underclothes. I grabbed his boxer shorts - something he'd never worn when he was with me, even though I'd asked - and pulled out my scissors, and you know what? I couldn't do it.
So I went into his wardrobe, and pulled out his shirts. Cliched to hell, I know, but I wanted to rip his life to shreds, the way he'd torn mine apart that day. With tears trickling down my cheeks, I stood there with the scissors in my hand, willing myself to do it.
Couldn't, though.
I saw the framed photo next to the bed, of him and her, laughing and happy in a way which I guess we had never been. I'd fooled myself, and he'd helped me. All the signs of their intimacy were around me; discarded nightclothes, a condom wrapper, an old valentine's day card from him to her, a half eaten box of chocolates on the dresser and a tiny love note scribbled on a pink post-it note, stuck onto one of the pillows.
I admit, I was as jealous as all hell to see all the signs of his love which, looking back, had never been there for me. But more than that - I guess I must have still loved him, because for some stupid reason I didn't want to hurt him, and that for both our sakes, the best thing I could do right now was to just walk away, and never come back.
I packed his underwear away, repocketed the scissors and padded quietly down the stairs.
Suppose you think I'm soft, eh? Gone all mushy in the face of love? Yeah, well what the hell do you know about it? I clicked the door shut behind me, locked it, tucked the key back where I'd found it and then walked away without a backward glance.
Giggling like a mad fool as I did. Because, you see, I'm not quite that forgiving, and I knew it'd be ages before they looked under their mattress and found the prawns that I'd hidden there.
And by that time, who knows? Maybe I wouldn't be in love with him any more.
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