‘Because that’s how he got in. I came in and found you on the sofa at about eleven o’clock. I tried to wake you for about five minutes. I was getting hysterical. Then in walks Marco through the front door. Called out your name. He’d got a takeaway for you both. I turned around and he was there, asking me what was going on. He looked angry, Stella. Not upset. Angry. I don’t think he expected to see me.’
She rubs her arms as though she is cold, leans forward, elbows resting on her knees.
‘I told him to call an ambulance and do you know what happened? I heard sirens. We both did. Pulling up outside the house. Someone had already called them. Was it you? And if it wasn’t, who was it?’
Carmel finally looks at me, and I am shocked at how calm she is, how deliberate. I am about to speak when Marco appears, holding coffees. He bends and kisses my brow.
‘All right? How’s the patient?’
‘Sore,’ I tell him. He looks tired. They both do. I feel another wave of guilt and bury it. ‘Marco, I don’t remember a thing.’
He looks over at Carmel then back at me with painful sympathy.
I speak quietly. ‘You don’t – you don’t think I did this deliberately, do you? Carmel?’
‘I don’t know, Stella,’ she says. ‘The first thing the paramedic asked me was what you’d taken, and I had to tell him I hadn’t a clue. I haven’t even seen you with pills unless you count the Valium you think I haven’t noticed you taking from my room.’
‘You can’t possibly think I meant to do this, can you?’
‘I think if you’re hiding what you’re doing – if you’re at that point – then you should see someone,’ Carmel says quietly, ‘and talk about your father.’
She turns to Marco and takes the coffee from his hand. ‘I’ve got to be at work in four hours, and I have to get a taxi. I’m going to need to borrow some money.’
‘Again?’ I hear him say quietly. I lie back on the starched pillow which rustles about my ears. He takes a note from his wallet, passes it to her. Before she leaves Carmel bends down and strokes my face, a gesture so tender it makes me dizzy. She parts the curtains, pulling her cigarettes from her pocket.
I look at Marco. ‘Marco—’
‘She’s upset. You gave her a scare. You gave us both a scare.’
‘What was I doing at home? How did I get there?’
‘We had a row.’
‘What? Really?’
‘Yup. Something stupid. We were both a bit pissed, I think. You don’t remember?’
‘No, I—’
‘You were pretty out of it.’
‘What are those scratches on your neck?’
‘Ah, Stella.’ He rubs his palms along his thighs. I stare at him aghast, feeling nausea building. ‘It’s okay. We were both drunk and you’ve – well, you’ve been through a lot.’
There is a silence for a moment.
‘Did I do that? I did, didn’t I?’
‘Stel—’
‘Let me see.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You bloody well can.’ I am struggling to sit up but my muscles are weak, shaky. A look passes over his face, almost of distaste.
‘I wish you wouldn’t swear,’ he says quietly. ‘You do it more often than you think.’
‘Marco, show me.’
He lowers the collar of his dark wool jumper. I clutch at myself, horrified and ashamed. His neck and upper chest are a crosshatching of welts, dotted with blood. I am shaking my head and he takes my hand in his, saying it’s all right baby, it’s all right. I look down and see his exposed wrist, the tanned skin, the dark and ravenous indentations in his flesh, the small ring of bruising. He sees me looking and laughs but he is nervous.
‘You bit me.’
‘No. No.’
‘It doesn’t hurt. Not anymore. You didn’t break the skin.’
I cover my mouth with my hand. Bitten him. Something curdles inside me. Where’s your muzzle, Katie Marigold? Now why am I thinking of that?
‘I’m sorry, Marco, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t remember.’
He smooths my brow. It is nice. I am a little girl again, sickly. I close my eyes, breathe him in. He’s been smoking. I can smell the cigar lingering on him, faintly exotic. He keeps them on his mantelpiece in a humidor. When I told Carmel he had them imported from Havana, I thought she was going to roll her eyes right out of her head.
‘Carmel said you had a key.’
‘Yes, I had your key. You insisted that we go back to yours. This was about eleven, I think. I went out to get a takeaway. We hadn’t eaten, either of us. Maybe that’s why the drink hit us both so hard. You must have taken the pills when I was out.’
‘Marco, I didn’t – I don’t—’
‘Ssssh. I know. I know. It’s all right now.’
We are quiet for a time. I can feel his pulse beneath the thin skin of his wrist. It’s not quite true, what I had been about to say: I don’t remember taking the pills. I do. I had taken them out of my bathroom cabinet, the one at home. I can even remember wondering what I was doing there. ‘I should be in Marco’s place,’ I thought as I took the bottle from the cupboard, ‘how did I get here’, as I shook two, three pills into my hand. I was feeling miserable. It must have been the argument. Fight, I correct myself. Call it what it was. Look at those marks on his neck. I swallowed them dry. I remember that. They made me retch. But I kept them down. But it had only been three pills. Now look at me.
‘She told me tonight that she was worried about her party.’
For a moment I am genuinely confused. ‘Who?’
‘Carmel. While the paramedics were working on you. She said she hoped you wouldn’t be in hospital for long because the party was only half paid for.’
‘S’right,’ I mumble, my eyes closing. I am so tired. ‘She put the deposit down last week. We’re paying off the rest this week.’
‘Clarification. You’re paying the rest this week. Come on. You need to get some rest. I’m here. I’m here until you get better.’
He hasn’t asked me why yet. He hasn’t asked why I did it. That is good, because I honestly do not know. I hold his hand. Marc-oh. I am so lucky.
Chapter 8
I am allowed to go home the following evening, a tiny bruise on the back of my hand where the needle went in. I go straight to bed, and I sleep deeply and dreamlessly for nine hours. When I’m jerked awake by my phone my skin feels too tight, and for a second or two I can hear my frantic pulse at my temples. I reach for it just as it stops ringing. My arms tingle with pins and needles.
‘Fuc—’
I wish you wouldn’t swear, he’d said. I lie back in bed and lift my phone, seeing that the missed call is from Aunt Jackie. That can wait. I begin scrolling through my Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. The Devil makes work for idle hands. I’m on a news site when I see it, beneath a story about free school dinners. The headline: ‘Former Child Star Overdose Drama’. I am throbbing all over with shame as I click it open. There I am, age seven, next to a golden Labrador with my hand on its head, bent at the knee as though I am proposing to it. I am wearing a blue satin dress, which bulges at the arms, making me look distended. There is that gap in my teeth that I had filled in as soon as I left the show. The story is a skeleton; no meat to it.