(Cymbeline)
Mirren was a proponent of the ‘in car scream’. She’d told Kelsey about its therapeutic benefits many times, but not having a car, the advice had never helped Kelsey.
In the past, Mirren had used the technique to scream out her frustration or to ward off tears and disappointment as she drove home from work of an evening, and she’d found the release of energy helped her switch from miserable work mode to a new frame of mind; her ‘heading home to eat ice cream from the tub and drink wine’ frame of mind.
Tonight, as she drove through late afternoon twilight along the coast heading out of Edinburgh to the harbour town where she lived, Mirren had drawn a deep breath and screamed her loudest celebratory scream, her lungs fit to burst with exhilaration and triumphant joy.
This was what success felt like, something Mirren had little experience of at theBroadsheet. Hard work, graft, slogging her guts out and being passed up time and again for promotions, she knew whatthosefelt like, but actually reaping the rewards and being recognised for her dedication? Never. At least, not until today.
She gripped the steering wheel, bouncing her shoulders off the backrest as she let her voice soar. Nobody could hear her, or see her, and no one thought she was crazy; that was the beauty of the in-car scream.
She was going to write the best feature Mr Angus had ever read. She’d research her topic in forensic detail, she’d conduct her interviews like a reporter uncovering a world-changing scoop, and she’d write up her copy with the linguistic flare of Robert Burns, Maya Angelou and Christina Rossetti combined. To be clear, she was going to prove herself and at last get the promotion she deserved.
Anybody could write up the court stories – the brilliant interns could do it in their sleep, instead of spending their days restocking the stationery cupboard, making coffee for other people and, on rare occasions, collecting senior reporters’ kids from school and taking them to McDonald’s until their dads were done for the day. Anybody with even a vague familiarity with the English language could write the stories she wrote. Only this morning she’d filed a sixty-word report about a woman charged with stealing twelve pairs of scissors. The accused hadn’t turned up for her court appearance and was bound over to stop nicking things for twelve months in her absence. Nothing to it. But writing a feature required a whole other skill set, and Mirren was more than ready to prove she had what it takes to wow the readers of the women’s pages in the weekend editions.
What with the joyful vocalisations and all of her daydreaming as she navigated the congested traffic that choked up her little quayside town, she didn’t realise exactly what she had done until it was too late. Not until she had found a parking space, pulled on the handbrake and unclicked her seatbelt did it occur to her where she was.
She wasn’t at her mum’s house where she now lived. She’d found her way back to the grey stone flat she and Preston had shared until only a few weeks ago. The softest unconscious parts of her brain had led her there, and deep down Mirren knew why.
She’d wanted to tell Preston all about her day. He had been the first person she’d thought of when Mr Angus accepted her pitch. As her heart had swelled with pride it had nudged the little muscle of long habit that told her to get home quick and tell Preston. He’d want to celebrate, probably insist on going out to buy some bubbly and having a chippy tea on the harbour wall, watching the late boats come in, like they used to. But that subconscious reflex that forever linked feelings of home, safety and celebration with Preston was a faulty one. She didn’t live here anymore, and neither did Preston. But it was too late. Here she was.
Mirren looked up at the windows of their flat on the second floor. The new occupants had gone for green curtains over the blinds Preston had fitted all by himself when they’d moved in together way back at the end of high school. Everyone had said they were too young, none more vociferously than Mirren’s mum, but they’d been so happy, at first, and they had shared every aspect of their lives from the ages of sixteen to twenty-eight – everything except Mirren’s cheating.
The blue light from a screen flickered in the window. Someone would notice her soon if she didn’t get away and Mirren couldn’t bear to look at the flat any longer.Regret is a terrible, clever thing,she reflected.It mingles with all of your guilt and comes creeping up on you when you’re not expecting it, and baam! It hits you.Her chest heaved and a hard sigh forced its way out of her mouth. Then the tears welled. She’d hurt him so badly.
She could remember it all so clearly. The first of September; the day she’d arrived home from Stratford after visiting Kelsey, resolved that she’d cheated on Preston for the last time, determined to make things right and leave him in peace. She’d had no idea how he would take it. He’d always been so docile, so gentle, accepting of people’s failings and frailties. He’d been fun too, quick to laugh and make light of difficult situations. Then there were his talents: for music (he could make his Gibson guitar sing like Springsteen); for making friends, and keeping them; for caring for people – he’d visited Kelsey’s grandfather for tea and chats when everyone else was at work or just plain busy, and nobody had ever thought to thank him properly. Poor, loving, overlooked Preston. She’d trampled on his feelings and everything he’d believed in.
She hadn’t just told him about her fling with Will Greville – the guy with the posh accent and auburn hair and condoms in his wallet at the theatrical gala in Stratford – she’d told him about the others too, dredging up memories from years ago of men whose faces she couldn’t even remember. It had been a great unburdening, a full confession.
Looking back now, she saw how cruel that had been; handing him the guilt that had troubled her for years, passing it on to him to convert into pain and shock. Some things are better left unsaid. Mirren had come to learn that the hard way.
Yet, a deep part of her had resolved to go all in. That’s how self-sabotage works. She’d told herself that if she didn’t stand there, look Preston in the eyes, and reveal to him the full depth of her infidelity, there was a chance he’d simply forgive her for making a one-off mistake, no matter how much he’d suffer in silence afterwards. The thought of what that forgiveness would feel like sickened her. He’d promise never to mention it again and he’d stick to his word, and every kind thing he did for her from then on would drag Mirren down into the mire of her guilt.
Preston had been her safe space since they were kids when the three of them, Kelsey included, were firm after-school theatre club friends. He deserved better than a patched-up relationship riddled with lies, faithfully residing with someone unable to admit to another living soul the terrible, secret thing she’d done five years ago that kick started all the self-destruction. She would barely allow herself to acknowledge it, and she hadn’t told Preston either, not even during her great confession.
No, he deserved better than her, always had. She’d had to bring about the absolute implosion of her relationship, making sure Preston couldn’t ever forgive her.
It had crushed her heart to see it work so perfectly.
He’d sat in silence, tears running down his face, distraught. He hadn’t believed her at first, then he simply hadn’t wanted to believe her. Then he’d asked her to stop talking. He had gathered up his books, a bundle of jeans and t-shirts, his laptop and his wallet, slung his guitar cases over his shoulders and walked out the door, leaving his key behind. And she hadn’t seen him since. Their friendship of fifteen long years was severed.
She’d sat in the flat for days, letting it all sink in, thinking of the pain she’d burdened him with in order to set him free, as she replayed over and over again images of what she’d done in Stratford.
It had been such a beautiful evening at the theatrical gala, the last day of what had been a dazzling and beautiful August. Mirren had felt like a knockout in her red, sequined dress. She and Kelsey had been roped in to taking part in atableau vivantby Kelsey’s pushy, brilliant boss, Norma Arden.
The thrill of being on stage that night, striking a frozen pose under the spotlights as they created the wonderfully artistic living picture in front of a cooing audience, along with the heady buzz from the complimentary drinks all evening had somehow made it seem acceptable to Mirren to take Will’s hand and let him lead her through the garden.
It had seemed enchanted and full of music and magic that late summer’s night, as she’d followed him up the steps into the old tree house and let him kiss her in the half light.
She remembered his velvet Elizabethan costume, and his English accent, classy and crisp, saying, ‘You really are something else,’ as he’d slipped his hands inside her dress, and for a moment she’d let her mind go blank and her senses take over.
He’d been passionate and gentle enough, but he hadn’t noticed her breathing stilling as her excitement faded and as she opened her eyes to watch the dust motes sparkling in the dying light from the stained glass of the tree house’s antique windows. She’d let her head roll loosely against his shoulder as his breathing and his movements sharpened, and she’d thought the same two familiar words that she’d thought on other occasions with other devilishly handsome, smart-talking men: ‘This again?’
Mirren had known then she’d have to go home and tell Preston it really was over this time. And so she’d watched his car pull away from the home they’d shared for years and the relationship they’d settled into since high school, knowing that the little flame of love that Preston had always carried for her, when no one else in the world – excepting Kelsey – adored her, was snuffed out by her own hand.
She didn’t know how long she cried for, sitting in her car outside the old flat, but it had grown cool and dark when she lifted her head from her hands and reached for the ignition. She drove home to her mum’s house in the silence of the autumn evening.
She’d only lasted a fortnight alone in that flat. It was impossible keeping up the rent on her own, so she’d moved to her mum’s, trying not to acknowledge that both of them knew it was absolutely her last resort.
