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Someone must have loved her once.
Her family, maybe. Her mother, at times (definitely not her father). Her auntie Jane, bless her heart, who used to come visit for the holidays with the same bag of stale sweets every year and, between the constant complaints about the absolute state of her home town, would tell her she was going to grow up to be such a pretty lady, like her mummy.
(Her cousin used to get an invite for Christmas’ lunch too, until that one time he- well, she doesn’t want to think about that now).
Who else.
Her attempts at making friends during her school years had been laughable at best, though it must be said she hadn’t put much effort into it. Boys were absolute twats anyway, and girls… were complicated.
Not that she didn’t like them. Sometimes, thinking back to those years, she wonders if they could sense that she liked them a bit too much.
When she was fifteen one girl in particular had caught her fancy: she had admired her lovely shiny blonde hair, so different from her ginger bird’s nest she could never manage to give a shape to. Her long lashes and slender hands and pretty lips. She had wanted nothing more than to become her friend: she would dream about walking home together every day, telling each other secrets, wondering how it would have felt to make her smile, to hold her hand and kiss her rosy cheek and-
But she felt too inadequate to even be in her vicinity, too afraid that if she'd make the mistake of even looking her in the eye then she would have known what she really was, how dirty and wrong she was inside.
So she would always run home after school, only stopping to say hello to Miss Calver at her shop.
Dear Miss Calver. Mad as a hatter, even in her younger years, but always so nice to her.
She had envied her for a long time, she does realise it now.
Having a shop of her own and running it with her best friend in the whole wide world: someone who always gets what goes through your head, who you can always have a laugh with, and even if you argue and even if people in town make fun of the weird old bats from the charity shop, it doesn’t matter anyway because you have each other and the other will never, never hurt you.
Terri did hurt her.
That came much later though, silly. You’re getting everything jumbled up.
Sorry. What came next?
*
Her new job was what came next, and it was always going to come next, and first, and before anything else.
She was good at what she did, a fast learner, a hard worker. Before she knew it she had her own office, where she could keep all her things, and those things were her own and no one else’s.
She labeled them anyway.
Pauline’s pens and Pauline’s clipboard and Pauline’s coffee mug.
She wasn’t a bumbling little girl. She was a Woman, and she could wear her smart skirt and put bright lipstick on, and nobody would dare to call her a pig in a wig anymore, because they were just unemployed scum and she was their Restart Officer.
Terri came and left and broke her heart in the process. She wouldn’t have wanted to run a shop with Pauline in her old age, anyway: she hated Vasey and the madness that festered among its streets too much.
She was also a liar and a bitch, and when she packed her things and left, Pauline didn’t care (she cared, she cared, she cared so much, she screamed and cried for days and asked God why he had made her the way she was. Enough with the bloody whingeing love, you’re doing me head in, God answered in Reverend Woodall’s voice).
*
They did take her things away from her, in the end.
He did. He took away her office and her pens and her job and her sweet idiot Mickey.
*
Did you love him?
Who? My husband?
The other… gentleman who visits you.
*
She hated him for what he had done to her, and her nights in the clink were dotted with vivid dreams about how she was going to find him the second she got out, and bash his head in.
And yet, loneliness can warp resentment and loathing into something very different, after a while.
Obsession, then longing, then need.
She knew he wanted to hurt her as much as she did, if not more. So a tiny part of her was not surprised when, standing in the middle of that sad white box he had the nerve to call a living room, he looked into her eyes, lowered his wine glass and leaned in.
I thought about you the whole time, Terri had said, while confessing to the irreparable.
She waited for Mickey’s face, picture of innocence, goodness and child-like curiosity, everything she never was and was never going to be, to come to her and stop her hand. It never did.
I’ll never be a good person anyway, Pauline thought, and ran her fingers through Ross’ hair.
*
It didn’t last long. It hurt. Not physically, except for the pain caused by his fingers digging into her hips, grasping frantically at her skin to steady himself while he took her apart. What really caused her pain was that every second that passed was a second closer to the end of it all. This was it. The first and only time she could pretend that someone she wanted would ever want her back so madly.
She tried to enjoy the feel of him, tried to make out what he was mumbling between labored breathing and profanities.
Pitiful, she heard him call her. And how could he not, after that sad display of weakness. How could he not take sick pleasure from giving her what she wanted and then taking it away so swiftly.
Nothing new about it. Everyone leaves when she asks too much of them.
Terri died and mummy left.
She died? When did that happen?
No, no, I mean- mummy died and Terri left.
Right, that makes more sense.
*
Well, go on then.
*
He lowers himself on her until his chest is flush with her back and utters that hateful word again. He says it almost tenderly though, and it does sound different this time, almost like he’s saying- oh, God.
A single tear rolls down her cheek, and she dries it under the pretense of keeping her glasses from falling off.
He’s being nice. She would normally be disgusted by such a spineless change of heart, but it’s Ross. It’s Ross telling her she’s beautiful, stroking her hip and pressing kisses on her back while he takes her.
Oh, she's got it all wrong, hasn't she. What if this is not revenge, what if he actually does find her desirable, even with her cropped red hair and her generous hips and masculine jaw.
He’s smart, he could keep the books in their lovely little shop. She will sell her pretty pens, and even if they argue and people in town make fun of the weird old lady from the pen shop and her bespectacled twig of a boyfriend, they will never hurt each other this way ever again.
He could learn to love her, if she tries hard enough.
Poor pathetic Pauline.
When they’re done, she has a small smile on her trembling lips as she struggles to fix her stockings. That smile falters when she meets his gaze.
You made me hate my job, he spits. She stumbles out the door, and runs and runs.
Sorry auntie Jane, didn’t end up becoming a pretty lady after all, did I.
*
He came to my wedding, you know?
I used to think he just wanted to take the piss one last time. The lesbian marrying the monkey.
Now I just think he missed me.
*
He’s got old. She has too, obviously, but she has a hard time placing that lined face over the smooth, youthful one he still possesses in her mind.
He must think she doesn’t realise how often he comes to visit, and each time he’ll pretend it’s the first time.
She heard the doctors warning him to stop doing that please sir, she’s only going to get more confused.
Hello, Pauline, long time no see, he says every time, and every time he goes to sit on that horrid mint coloured armchair near the window.
Why is that monstrosity even in her house anyway, did her husband buy it?
We’re not at your house.
He never brings flowers, which would be the proper thing to do at a housewarming party, thank you very much.
We’re not at your house, Pauline.
He brings her little trinkets though, and looks at her with a scowl on his face, like he’s expecting her to react in some way. She always smiles and thanks him politely, because that’s how her mother taught her, and his frown always deepens.
Then he leaves, and she’s alone again for a while. That other boy comes to visit.
He does bring flowers, and isn’t that sweet, even if they always look like someone sat on them.
Doctor said you can come home soon, he says, with a smile so wide that it must be hurting his cheeks. She’s not sure of what he means by that, but she returns the smile, because that’s the polite thing to do.
*
That’s how my mother…
…thaught you, yes. Very well, I think we can cont
*
She places her gifts in a neat little row on her bed, so she can organize everything on her bedside table. She has a system, you know.
Pauline’s pens and Pauline’s flowers and Pauline’s bottle of donepezil.
*
-see no reason why your husband can’t take you home, as long as you continue your therapy as usual.
Is he here?
Excuse me?
*
Mrs Michaels, please stay here while we call your husband.
*
Mrs Michaels?
*
That is not her armchair. That is not her wallpaper or her books or her carpet. She remembers picking the furniture two weeks before the wedding, how they had argued about the curtains, because you can’t put white curtains on a white wall, your entire flat is white, don’t you want a bit of colour in your life?
You’re a bit of colour in my life, Red, he replies, and their glasses clunk together when he kisses her.
*
My name is not Mrs Michaels.
Pauline, please.
Is he here, then?
*
He had grumbled for hours about having to wear a pink tie to match her pink dress, but she knew it was all for show.
He hadn't minded, really.
*
I want to see him. Right fucking now.
Yes, yes, we’re going to call him soon. No need to be rude, dear.
Sorry, Miss Calver.
Very well! Now, come sit, Vinnie is going to make us a nice cuppa, isn’t that right dear?
What, dear?
I said, isn’t that ri
*
Pauline’s husband has got blue eyes and straight brown hair. He’s a smart man. He wears glasses. Well he’s not smart just cause he wears glasses, or else everybody and their mums would be fucking Einstein, wouldn’t they.
They went to Spain on their honeymoon. Bloody nightmare, I’m telling you. Didn’t sleep a wink because of those imbecils drinking and playing their bastard guitar all night long under our hotel window.
Thought Ross would pop an aneurysm, the poor sod. Never seen him so angry, and that’s saying something!
It was lovely, though. We were very happy.
*
…
*
She hopes he’ll visit soon. It's been a while.
He's always so busy with work. She understands. She used to be the same way, after all. She can wait.
They always come back to each other in the end, anyway.
Oh, Mickey love, why do you look so sad?
*