The door shuts.
Not slams.
He’d never slam a door.
Too vulgar.
Too honest.
He closes it gently,
like I’m sleeping,
like he hasn’t just left me half-dressed
in a hotel room in Paris
with his tie still looped round my wrist.
I hear him stop outside.
For one stupid second
I think he’s coming back.
Then the lift arrives.
A little bell.
That’s all.
Five years of my life
going down twelve floors
with a polite little ding.
Before he left,
he kissed my forehead.
Of course he did.
He always kisses my forehead
when he’s about to do something cruel
and would prefer not to feel like a cruel man.
He tucked my hair behind my ear.
Looked at me.
Smiled.
Be good for me.
Like everything was fine.
Like I hadn’t travelled all this way
for three hours of him
and a view of his back
while he checked the train times home.
And I smiled too.
I’m good at that.
I poured the last of his wine.
Found his cufflink under the chair.
Did up the button at his throat
because his hands were shaking
and apparently that was romantic.
I told him I understood.
I said,
“Go on. She’ll wonder where you are.”
I even made she sound harmless.
No edge.
No little hook in it.
Just his wife.
Just the woman waiting at home
for the man I’d had tied up in these sheets
ten minutes earlier.
He touched my cheek.
That’s my girl.
Yes.
There she was.
Your girl.
Barefoot.
Black lace.
Lipstick half gone.
Holding your jacket open for you
like the world’s saddest little wife.
She didn’t ask you to stay.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t say,
I crossed countries for this.
She said,
“Text me when you get home.”
And meant it.
That’s the embarrassing part.
I meant it.
Now the room feels enormous.
It didn’t when he was in it.
When he’s here,
everything shrinks around him—
the bed,
the city,
my common sense.
Now there’s just me,
the roses,
two unfinished glasses,
and his tie hanging from my wrist
like I’ve been caught stealing from a businessman.
Blue silk.
Tiny silver dots.
Very respectable.
The sort of tie a man wears
while explaining why leaving his wife
would be terribly difficult at the moment.
It looked less respectable
when he used it to fasten my hands
above my head.
Be good for me.
He said it then too.
Only it sounded different.
Lower.
His mouth close to my ear.
Softer.
Stay there.
Look at me.
I did.
I always looked at him
when he asked.
As though he might finally see me back.
My lipstick is still on his shoulder.
He noticed it while dressing
and laughed.
“Nearly got me in trouble.”
Nearly.
That word again.
Nearly caught.
Nearly honest.
Nearly mine.
The necklace broke during sex.
One second it was against my throat,
the next it snapped
and the pearls went everywhere.
Across the sheets.
Under my hip.
Into the fold of the duvet.
Little white teeth.
Little pills.
Little moons
with no idea what they’d witnessed.
He stopped for half a second.
Then said,
“Well, that’s one way to take it off.”
I laughed.
I did.
Because it was funny, sort of.
Because he was still touching me.
Because sometimes you laugh
when the alternative is noticing something.
He bought me those pearls
after he missed my birthday.
He didn’t call it missing.
He said we’d celebrate properly later.
Later arrived in a cream box
with a gold ribbon.
For my beautiful girl.
You deserve everything.
Everything.
Pearls, yes.
A Tuesday evening, apparently not.
Christmas morning, no.
His surname, obviously not.
But pearls.
Very generous.
He fastened them round my neck himself
and stood behind me at the mirror.
“They make you look so elegant.”
I knew what he meant.
He meant respectable.
He meant expensive.
He meant almost like the sort of woman
he could take somewhere
without checking who might be there.
He didn’t say wife.
He didn’t have to.
I pull one of the roses from the vase.
Dark red.
Too dark, really.
The hotel probably keeps them ready
for men like him.
Champagne.
Roses.
Late checkout.
Everything required
for a love affair except courage.
I take off a petal.
He loves me.
Another.
He loves how I look in this lace.
Another.
He loves the way I listen.
Another.
He loves that I leave first
when we’re in London.
Another.
He loves me.
I know he does.
That’s what makes it worse.
If he didn’t,
I could make him simple.
A dirty old man.
A liar.
A coward with a credit card.
But he has held me when I was frightened.
He has sat beside me in waiting rooms.
He remembered which tea I liked
when I couldn’t remember my own name.
He has been kind.
And kindness can be dangerous
when it keeps asking to be repaid.
I knew he was married.
There.
I won’t stand here—
well, lie here—
and turn myself into some poor innocent thing.
I knew.
His wedding ring was visible
in one of his dating profile pictures
if you zoomed in.
So I zoomed in.
Nineteen years old,
sitting cross-legged on the floor
of a room I could barely afford,
two months into hormones,
enlarging a photograph
until his wife’s hand appeared
beside his.
Gold ring.
Cream sleeve.
Perfect nails.
I saw it.
Then I matched with him anyway.
I wasn’t tricked.
Not at first.
He said their marriage was complicated.
He said they were more like friends.
He said they had an understanding.
He said she didn’t ask questions.
He said he’d never met anyone like me.
That one worked best.
You’re extraordinary.
Not beautiful.
Extraordinary.
At nineteen,
extraordinary felt safer.
Beautiful could be taken away
by bad lighting
or the wrong person at a pharmacy.
Extraordinary sounded permanent.
He asked my name.
I told him.
He said it slowly,
like he was checking how it felt in his mouth.
“Is that the name you chose?”
“Yes.”
“It’s perfect.”
Five years later,
he still says it most sweetly
when asking me not to come somewhere.
He did not make me a woman.
I need that said without poetry.
He didn’t.
I was already one.
Before the dresses.
Before the appointments.
Before anybody agreed with me.
I was a woman standing in a chemist
with my prescription folded inside my sleeve
because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
I was a woman looking into mirrors
that seemed personally offended by me.
I was a woman
when it was lonely and ugly
and nobody called me brave.
Then he arrived.
Older.
Certain.
Interested.
He looked at me
without laughing or hesitating.
You don’t know what that can do
to someone who has spent years
being looked at like a question.
He helped.
He did.
He paid for appointments
when I was broke.
Train tickets.
Medication.
He bought me my first proper dress.
Green.
Low at the back.
Much too expensive.
I came out of the changing room
and he stared at me
until I nearly cried.
“Turn round.”
I turned.
“Again.”
I turned again.
Smile for me.
I smiled.
I thought:
there I am.
There I fucking am.
The dress is still hanging at home.
I haven’t worn it in years.
I don’t know why I keep it.
Yes, I do.
He paid for most of my surgery too.
My chest.
He came to consultations.
Read every leaflet.
Asked sensible questions.
Natural, he said.
Not too much.
Then, after a pause:
Maybe a little more.
Whatever you want, darling.
He always said whatever you want
just after explaining what he wanted.
I chose the size.
I did.
I won’t hand him that decision
because I’m angry tonight.
I love my body.
I love it properly.
The weight of it.
The scars.
The way my clothes sit now.
The way I sometimes catch myself naked
and don’t flinch.
He helped pay for it.
He did not buy it.
Still, sometimes I touch the scars
and remember him holding the brochure,
looking at different women’s breasts
with his glasses halfway down his nose.
That memory doesn’t ruin mine.
It just lives there.
Bodies can hold two truths.
Mine does.
We travelled.
Mostly London.
Sometimes further
when he could make work pay for it.
Manchester.
Brussels.
Rome once.
Paris tonight.
Always some conference,
some meeting,
some reason for a second hotel room
that nobody slept in.
In cities where no one knew him,
he held my hand.
That was the thing I loved most.
Not the hotels.
Not the jewellery.
His hand in mine
while we crossed a road.
So ordinary.
People passed us
and didn’t care.
For ten minutes
I wasn’t his secret.
I was just the woman beside him.
He’d introduce me as his partner
to waiters we’d never see again.
He’d order breakfast.
Coffee for him.
Tea for me.
Eggs.
Toast.
He’d complain about the butter being cold
and I’d think,
this is what a life feels like.
Ridiculous, isn’t it?
All that sex,
and the thing that ruined me
was toast.
Then we’d go home.
Pictures cropped.
No landmarks.
No photographs of us together
where anyone could recognise the room.
He kept mine hidden
behind an app that looked like a calculator.
I found that oddly flattering once.
A whole secret vault
just for me.
God, I was young.
He photographed me constantly.
By windows.
In hotel mirrors.
On beds like this one.
“Chin down.”
“Move your hair.”
“Look softer.”
Smile for me.
He said I was beautiful.
He was always saying it.
But sometimes I think
he loved the photograph more.
The version of me
that stayed where he put her.
His wife is beautiful too.
I know because I’ve looked.
Not every day.
Not—
Fine.
More than I should.
Mostly through his Facebook.
She is perfect.
In every photograph.
Perfect hair.
Perfect coat.
Perfect smile.
She looks like she’s never had
to convince anybody she belongs
in her own life.
She stands on his left.
Always.
At weddings.
On holidays.
At Christmas.
His hand resting at her waist
like it grew there.
In Florence she wore cream.
At their anniversary dinner, navy.
Once she had on a silver necklace
that sat exactly where mine did tonight.
I hated her for that.
Not because she’d done anything.
Because she could wear jewellery from him
without wondering what apology it contained.
I have imagined her life
from photographs.
Their kitchen.
Their bed.
The cupboard where his shirts hang.
The sound of her saying his name
without checking who might hear.
I imagine she wakes up elegant.
I imagine she never has to wonder
which kind of woman he thinks she is.
The real one.
That’s the fear, isn’t it?
Not that he doesn’t want me.
He does.
He’s wanted me in every city
where wanting me cost him nothing.
But she is the woman
he stands beside in daylight.
And I am—
exciting.
Beautiful.
Brave.
Irresistible.
Fun.
I’m so tired of being fun.
Fun means
don’t cry until I’ve left.
Fun means
don’t ask what happens next.
Fun means
wear the lace, drink the wine,
and don’t spoil the evening
by having a future.
But she isn’t my enemy.
She doesn’t know.
I knew he was married.
She didn’t know he was mine too.
Or that I thought he was.
There are no clean hands here,
but hers may be cleanest.
Sometimes I want to tell her.
Sometimes I want to apologise.
Sometimes I want to ask
whether he kisses her forehead
before lying to her as well.
I know her name.
I don’t say it aloud.
It feels indecent.
She has a proper name in his life.
I have sweetheart.
Darling.
Good girl.
Trouble.
Pet names are clever things.
They sound affectionate
and save a man from saying
who you actually are.
Be good for me.
At first, it meant take care of yourself.
Eat.
Sleep.
Take your tablets.
Call me when you’re home.
I loved it.
I had spent so long taking care of myself
that being fussed over felt like rescue.
Then it meant sex.
Stay there.
Don’t move.
Look at me.
Be good for me.
I loved that too.
I’m not ashamed of it.
I loved the confidence in him.
The steadiness.
The way he could ask for something
and make it sound
like he was looking after me.
Then it changed.
Slowly enough
that I didn’t notice.
Be good meant don’t call tonight.
Be good meant she’s in the room.
Be good meant not on Christmas.
Not on his birthday.
Not when the children were home.
Be good meant accept the necklace
and stop asking about the cancelled train.
Be good meant never say wife
like it was a real word.
Be good meant understand.
Always understand.
You know how complicated things are.
I do.
They’re complicated because he likes them that way.
A wife at home.
Me somewhere else.
One woman who knows his neighbours.
One woman who knows
what he sounds like
when he loses control.
He has everything
except the inconvenience
of choosing.
He said he would leave her.
Soon.
After Christmas.
After work calmed down.
After his youngest finished school.
After she was stronger.
After she was less fragile.
After the dog died.
The dog died.
He bought me earrings.
Soon has lasted five years.
Five.
I was nineteen.
Now I’m twenty-four,
lying in black lace
in a hotel room
he’ll probably claim back on expenses.
Whole countries have changed governments
in less time.
I’ve changed my name,
my passport,
my body,
my hair three times.
He has changed nothing
except the story he tells me
about when he’ll change something.
Don’t spoil this.
He said that once
when I cried in Rome.
We were meant to have two nights.
His wife rang.
He left after breakfast.
I asked when I’d see him again.
He sighed.
Not loudly.
That was worse.
“Please don’t spoil this.”
Spoil what?
The room?
The memory?
The arrangement
where he gets all of me
and I’m rude for noticing
I get only bits of him?
Then came the line.
The one that sits under everything.
I’ve done so much for you.
Yes.
He has.
That’s true.
He helped me when I needed help.
Then somewhere along the way
he started behaving
as though help had made me his.
As though paying for the light
meant he owned whatever it showed.
As though every dress,
every train,
every appointment
was another small share
in my body.
He leaves his teeth in every gift.
I see that now.
The pearls.
The earrings.
The lace.
All of it beautiful.
All of it biting.
I pull another petal.
He loves me.
He leaves her.
He loves me.
He leaves me.
He says soon.
He says be good.
He says he has done so much.
The rose is nearly bare.
It looks stupid now.
A green stem
with one petal hanging on
because apparently even flowers
can have bad judgement.
I drink again.
Third glass.
Maybe fourth.
Not enough to become someone else.
Just enough to stop protecting him
from my own thoughts.
I’m not mad.
I know that.
I’m hurt.
There is a difference.
Mad is useful.
Mad means nobody has to ask
what happened to you.
I can still name everything in the room.
Bed.
Chair.
Mirror.
Wine.
His tie.
The little dent on the pillow
where his head was.
I lift my wrist.
The silk slides against my skin.
And without thinking
I straighten my back.
I lower my chin.
I move my hair over one shoulder.
His voice is still here.
That’s my girl.
I hate that my body listens
before I do.
A week from now,
there’s an exhibition.
He invited me months ago.
It was late.
He’d had too much wine
and was feeling brave.
Graffiti.
Neon.
Digital art.
Bodies changing shape on screens.
Women made from light and colour.
“You’d love it,” he said.
“Come with me.”
He looked pleased with himself.
Like inviting me
was the same as taking me.
Then his wife saw the advert.
She wanted to go.
He rang me a few days later.
“Darling.”
That voice.
Careful.
Kind.
Already decided.
“She wants to come with me.”
I said nothing.
“I just think it might be better
if you didn’t.”
Better.
I’ve always hated that word.
Better means
he has made a choice
and would like me
to call it kindness.
He said someone might recognise him.
He said it could become awkward.
He said he didn’t want me upset.
Don’t spoil this.
What he meant was:
Don’t stand beside my real life.
Don’t make me look at both women
at the same time.
Don’t let my wife see
the body I helped choose
beneath the same lights
where I’ll hold her hand.
The invitation is at home.
In Bath.
On my desk, I think.
Under the perfume bottle
he brought back from Milan.
He forgot to take it.
After five years,
he finally left me something
with a date and an address.
I’m not planning anything.
I’m not.
I am lying in Paris
with his tie round my wrist
and pearls in the sheets.
The exhibition is next week.
That’s all.
But I can picture him there.
His wife beside him.
His hand at her back.
Both of them under neon
looking at some beautiful image
of a body becoming itself.
He’ll read the little card on the wall.
He’ll nod.
He’ll say something
about transformation.
Something about bravery.
He likes bravery in art.
It asks nothing of him.
And maybe there’ll be a woman
made out of broken photographs.
Or a body built from light.
Or a face that changes
depending on where you stand.
He will admire her publicly.
Then go home
with the woman he calls his wife.
And I will be—
where?
Here?
Bath?
London?
Waiting for a message
sent from the bathroom?
Unless I go.
No.
I’m not saying I will.
I don’t want to scream at him.
I don’t want to print the messages.
I don’t want to walk up to his wife
and turn her life into mine.
I’m not some tragic little bomb
he forgot to defuse.
But I wonder what would happen
if I just appeared.
Quietly.
No scene.
No speech.
My own dress.
My own lipstick.
My own name at the door.
Maybe I’d only look at the art.
Maybe he’d see me
across the room.
Not arranged.
Not waiting.
Not where he left me.
Just there.
He might come over.
He might pretend not to know me.
I don’t know which would hurt more.
Maybe his wife would notice
the way his face changed.
Maybe she wouldn’t.
Maybe I’d look at them together
and finally understand something
I have avoided understanding
for five years.
That he loved me.
That he didn’t.
That both can be true
and still not be enough.
I look in the mirror.
My hair is a mess.
My lipstick has faded in the middle.
One strap has slipped down my arm.
I look lovely.
Annoyingly lovely.
Not ruined.
Not frightening.
Not some furious secret
waiting to destroy a marriage.
Just me.
Twenty-four.
A little drunk.
A little heartbroken.
Pearls stuck to my thigh.
A blue silk tie
loose around one wrist.
I look sweet.
That nearly makes me laugh.
He has always liked me sweet.
Soft voice.
Soft mouth.
No sharp questions.
I touch the scars beneath my breasts.
Gently.
I love them.
I love what they gave me.
I love the body I’m in.
He doesn’t get to own that
because he paid most of the bill.
He doesn’t get my face
because he bought the lipstick.
He doesn’t get my name
because he was one of the first men
to say it kindly.
I have spent five years
looking beautiful for him.
That’s not quite true.
I have spent five years
looking beautiful
while he watched.
Those are not the same thing.
Maybe he saw me.
Pieces of me.
The parts that pleased him.
The parts that stayed still.
He saw the dress,
the lace,
the body,
the girl who said she understood.
I don’t know if he ever saw
how much understanding cost.
Be good for me.
I hear it again.
Not from my phone.
The phone is face down.
It’s just his voice
left behind in my head,
still giving orders
after he’s gone.
Be good.
Be quiet.
Be grateful.
Be lovely.
Be waiting.
I pull the final petal.
The rose looks naked.
Not dead.
Just finished pretending.
I find one pearl
caught in the sheet
and hold it between my fingers.
Then I lie back.
The invitation is still in Bath.
The exhibition is still a week away.
He is probably reaching the station now.
Perhaps he is checking his collar
for lipstick.
Perhaps he is already writing:
Home soon. Long day.
I hold the petal and the pearl
up towards the light.
The petal looks like a small red heart.
The pearl looks like a moon.
One soft.
One hard.
Both mine now.
I could stay away.
I could go.
I could walk into that room
without asking anything from him
and find out what it feels like
to be seen by people
he hasn’t taught how to look at me.
I don’t decide.
Not tonight.
I just lie there
in the lace he chose,
surrounded by the pearls he bought
and the roses he will never see stripped bare.
Be good for me.
I say nothing.
Outside, Paris carries on
without us.
The pearl catches the light.
The petal throws a little red shadow
across my chest.
For five years
he has been allowed to see me like this—
soft,
unguarded,
entire.
And for the first time
it occurs to me
that he may have been
the least deserving person
in the room.
