Letters from Yelena (21 page)

‘As a joke?’ I asked.

Elizabeth looked momentarily at you, a little something playing  on  her  lips. You  looked  at  your  glass,  my  eyes following yours as it slowly
settled.

‘A few weeks ago?’ I continued.

Moving to assure me, you slowly placed your hand on top mine. But when I looked down, an icy shock passed through me as I saw that my fingernails were suddenly painted navy blue. I never painted
my nails.

I gasped, and suddenly recalled my hand. A glass tinkled in the distance, and it felt deafening. ‘Are you okay?’ Elizabeth asked. And then, I suddenly remembered my third dream. From
the previous night.

I had dreamt that you and Elizabeth were topless in bed, her head on your lap as you read your work to her. In one hand you held a sheaf of papers and with the other you were stroking the side
of her face. The sudden recollection scalded me so viciously that I felt sure I would faint.

‘Yelena?’ you asked. ‘It was just after you and I had met. We weren’t dating yet. I – I got carried away, I felt so happy that it was going well.’

‘You got carried away?’ Elizabeth said, mimicking the fragile tone of your voice. ‘Charming.’ She looked at me. ‘Knowing Noah, I wouldn’t read too much into
it.’

‘I’m not allowed to read his work either,’ Hannah said. Her voice came from a cavern miles away. Finally, my vision settled on Hannah. On her small, dark bob of hair and her
wide, worried eyes.

‘That’s because Daddy’s writing is for grown ups,’ you said.

‘Because it’s filth,’ Elizabeth whispered, before laughing brightly, and in that brief interval I regained myself.

‘What’s filth?’ Hannah asked.

‘It’s what you have around your mouth, young lady. Now we’re going to wipe your mouth, and then you’re going to order your meal.’

I felt your eyes on me. I had no idea how obvious my flutter had been, but it was apparent that you at least had seen all of it. ‘It is hot in here,’ you said, as Elizabeth looked
down at her menu.

‘That’s true,’ I replied.

Elizabeth eyes stayed on the menu. Hannah’s stayed on me. Your fingers clasped mine.

My fingernails were still painted blue.

I wished I had not chosen that dress to wear.

I wished that the room would settle.

I wished Elizabeth’s eyes would move off my features, raking over them for every inch of a reaction. Suddenly I couldn’t fight it a second longer.

With a loud clattering, which seemed to draw the attention of the entire restaurant, I found my feet. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ I said.

You looked blank. Elizabeth smiled, wanly. But her eyes stayed fixed on the menu.

I made my way to the ladies toilet, and thanked fate that it was empty. Once inside, I lay my palms flat against the surface either side of the sink and looked at my reflection. I could see the
small islands of makeup that I had dabbed onto my face in the half-light of your room. The skin above my cleavage was wet, with what seemed to be cold sweat. My expression was familiar, one of
suppressed panic. I had last seen it on the night that Alina had taken the role of Giselle. The last time I had felt this inadequate, this haunted. The two feelings seemed to be lashing together
with a disquieting regularity, striking me with a powerful blow whenever they combined. Suddenly, I recalled the memory of Bruna’s twisted laugh. Years had passed and yet there it was and the
sound was enough to make my hand tremble.

I straightened up, and looked in the mirror. I had a famished look in my eyes. A sinking feeling told me that all this was due to my incapacity to handle the world. I looked as if I was silently
begging for a reprieve from all of the conflicting demands that I could not understand. You had made me feel happy and liberated; you had seemed pure and untainted. Emotionally, I had invested so
much in you the moment you first laid eyes upon me. I had felt saved, merely by your attention, however stupid that was. But now I knew that weeks after that point you had been asking your former
girlfriend to marry you, and now she’d brought it up you hadn’t even denied it. It had been her who had minimised it. There were so many questions I could not answer, and it was unusual
that I was asking them of myself with such urgency.

I sluiced water around my face. My chest now felt hot and fiery but I did not dare dab it, for fear that I would come out covered in water stains. I could feel damp patches building around my
armpits, and so I told myself to keep my arms at my sides. As I prepared to leave I suddenly felt that swinging sensation at the back of my head again. I gripped the sink with both hands until it
faded, and then told myself I had to go back.

I stepped behind a row of potted plants, through which our table was just about visible. Peering through the leaves I saw Elizabeth smile, curling her hair behind her ears. You were leaning into
her, cradling your fingers together. It looked as if you could take her hand at any moment. With Hannah completing the soft triangle of bodies I felt that by merely approaching the table I would be
tearing a family apart. I silently cursed myself for having used my barren body for archaic dances rather than for nurturing another life.

I heard Elizabeth say, ‘She did look a little… gaunt.’

You nodded, slowly. Elizabeth looked up and said, ‘She is very beautiful. They always are.’

You laughed nervously, just as I passed the plants and came into her eye line.

I was not able to properly engage for the rest of the meal. I asked questions, I tried to expand upon my answers, but it all felt forced. After a while I focused my attention on Hannah, who
asked me to take her over to look at the cooking.

‘You don’t have to,’ Elizabeth said.

‘I’d like to,’ I answered.

Over by the open kitchen I held Hannah’s little hand as she looked up at the orange flames. Some of them reached up to the ceiling when they threw meat into a pan and every time that
happened Hannah squealed and held my hand tighter. I picked her up for a brief moment so she could see better, and I felt you watching us.

The cooks fried steaks, chopped herbs and kneaded dough. The sound and colour of the kitchen was almost too much for me. I closed my eyes and tried to shut everything out except the warmth of
Hannah’s hand in my mine. I was eventually able to shut out all the noise and clatter until all I could feel was her hand. It soothed me, made me feel human again. I felt a powerful love for
Hannah. And then I opened my eyes, and looked down at her just as she said, ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’

With love from,

Yelena

Dear Noah,

I suppose I didn’t think how worrying it would have been to read my last letter. The first time I read your reply I merely skimmed over it, as I didn’t want to be
dissuaded from ever giving you an honest account. In your endless quest for objectivity I know you seek absolute truth, but you fear it as well. You wrote that in trying to understand what happened
between us the truth ‘has to be built, brick by brick’. You said that you had built a wall, of sorts, by yourself, but time had filled it with fissures and indentations, which my
letters served to treat. This makes the truth sound domestic and rigorous, but I don’t feel it ever is. I feel that we can capture the whole truth when it comes to one aspect of us –
desire perhaps. But we can never capture it absolutely, from every perspective, as I know you wish we could. We are still flailing at petals, Noah, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t an
honourable intention to try.

Therefore please forgive me if I forge ahead with telling you what happened next, however difficult it may be to read. We can only treat the lacerations of the past once we have seen them all,
because ultimately, these letters concern the need we both have to find a way back towards one another.

You were kind to me after that dinner. You already knew me well enough to not enquire too deeply as to the cause of my little flutter. I felt crazy for having ever seen you as something pure, in
a damaged world that constantly felt dirty.

By the time we were back at yours it was starting to grow dark and leaves were flitting over the pavement, as if hurrying secretly to some unknown destination. You made a pot of dark, sweet
coffee and I looked out at the park from the top floor of your house. You placed your arm around me, and asked if I was alright. I knew it was too soon to give you the whole truth, but I did hope
that you could perhaps work it out for yourself.

‘What did you think of Elizabeth?’ you asked. ‘She seems to like you.’

‘I like her too. And little Hannah is just adorable.’

You moved to sit in the corner of the room. From there my shadows fell over you.

‘You seemed a little shaky tonight,’ you said.

I remember pausing, and then pacing slowly around the room. I didn’t want you to think that I was crazy, so I knew I had to carefully word my response. As I walked, I suddenly went
en
pointe
, and you laughed. I rushed over to you and held your hand. I suddenly felt a wave of love for you, which broke into small splashes of honesty.

‘She is so beautiful, Noah. And she has given you Hannah. I know it’s stupid, but I couldn’t help wondering what exactly
I
give to you. I can understand why you asked
her to marry you.’ It took quite an effort to sound like I believed what I was saying, and I felt something drag through my heart as I said it.

‘I did it because for a brief time it felt like the right thing to do. Elizabeth is wonderful and I am blessed to have been given Hannah, but what you and I have is so rare. It’s
what everyone goes on endless, horrific dates trying to find: a genuine, mutual fascination. An unshakeable empathy not just for each other’s lives now, but for the lives we had before we
met. And perhaps most importantly – an unquenchable desire.’

I laughed as you squeezed my waist. I gave you a look of relieved suspicion, yet inside me nothing had changed.

‘Elizabeth and I are good friends, but it was right that she turned me down. She only ever offered me stability, comfort, and that’s not what I really wanted. I adore your
complexity; it’s what makes you so intriguing. It places me on a journey, Yelena, don’t you see? With you there is something to find. There is a map to follow. That exhilarates me. This
evening, when I saw how troubled you were, it just made me like you even more. Do you know what I mean?’

I did. I placed one of your jazz records on the gramophone, and we didn’t say another word about it. We listened to the music, and I lay my head on your shoulder. The scent of recently
brewed coffee lingered in the air, and the leaves stirred outside.

It was the following day when I made a mistake. I suppose it was to do with the fact that since
Giselle
ended I had created a space that I needed to fill, and I began to fill it with
worry for us. Although I had feigned nonchalance when learning about the marriage proposal, the truth is that it had completely blemished my vision of you. I needed to distance myself from these
encroaching thoughts. It was in an effort to find another way to cull that frenetic movement of my mind that I started to dance to the music of
Sleeping Beauty
when you went into town to
meet your agent.

I danced slowly at first, but then my body felt driven by the thought of releasing all its tensions. I loved the sense of mastery I had over the music, a sense I had never experienced with any
other aspect of my life. I began to speed up, and reproach myself for not having danced for a couple of weeks, until I suddenly felt a tearing sensation at my ankle. I cried out, and fell to the
floor like a lotus. I stayed there for a good half hour, rubbing and kneading my ankle and waiting for the sharp, knife-like pain to recede. By the time you were home I was hobbling around the
house, and you were rushing to call the physiotherapist. I found it in me to laugh. Fate, it seemed, was telling me to stop.

The next day the doctor advised that, as a consequence of the twist, I would be pretty much housebound for a week. You were never very good at taking care of yourself, but you did all you could
to take care of me, and seeing how much the twist impacted upon my sudden sense of freedom you said that in a few days you were going to whisk me away for our first romantic break together. While I
was incapacitated you charged me with the duty of choosing our destination. And so, while you pummelled away on your typewriter downstairs, I scoured the internet for the perfect excursion. For
now, the void was filled. Eventually, I chose a beautiful country house in Scotland. I imagined long mornings spent in four-poster beds where we lazily ate breakfast before making love. I’d
at last get to see the inner workings of your mind, reading your next manuscript as you showered. We’d then spend the afternoons out in the country, talking endlessly until we found a country
pub to settle down in. There wouldn’t be a lot of walking, but a few sedentary days would do us no harm.

It was the following afternoon when your agent called and requested that you meet her urgently. You rushed out of the house, only to return many hours later. Shamefaced, you told me that we
would have to postpone our holiday. Your agent had recently managed to arrange a meeting with the publisher you had always wanted, one who could help you break through internationally. She had
recently persuaded them to read your work, and they were apparently about to make you an offer on your next book. You were sorry, you said, but you couldn’t miss this opportunity. You were
going to have to go straight down to London to hear what they had to say.

Although I was pleased for you, I was devastated as well. I knew that you would probably now become very busy and that our time away together would be indefinitely postponed. It sounded as
though you would need to be in London for the best part of a week, and so I insisted that you leave me with your work in progress. You agreed, and after many apologies and kisses you left the next
day, excited and distracted. I was alone in your house, and still struggling to cross the room without tripping over.