Charley, where the hell have you been? James shouts as he rushes downstairs, hand skimming the oak bannister. I’ve been phoning you. You didn’t pick up. You never bloody pickup! Where’ve you been? Where’re my shoes? You did get them from the cobblers?  he says, stopping abruptly two steps from the bottom. He stares at her.

​

Charley looks up, they’re not ready till Wednesday, you…you said that was fine - 

 

I asked you to do one – simple - thing. What the hell do you do all day? his lips moved tightly around his clenched straight white teeth. 

 

Butthey’renot​              ready – Charley tried again.

 

I should have done it myself. I’ve always got to do every-damn-thing on my own. You’re always in a bloody dwam.

 

Charley brushed past James racing up the stairs two at a time, returning with a pair of immaculate Church’s black brogues. He was still standing where she had left him. Here, she says, her eyes on the shoes, your other ones will be here by the time you’re back tomorrow -

 

For God’s sake Charley, I told you yesterday, I won’t be back here till Friday this week. What the hell’s wrong with you!

 

Really? she says, hands dropping by her side. Again? You’re working away all week again? You’re away -

 

Someone has to! Don’t. Even.           ​Start, he says coming towards her. Charley holds his gaze then turns to face the stairs, her reflection in the hall mirror spinning, head filling with the heavy blurred reds and golds of the hallway. Closing her eyes, she grasps the bannister, fingernails digging into the grooves of the curved, carved finial at the bottom of the stairs. The hall steadies and stops:

 

And don’t forget to book the Townhouse for dinner next Saturday. I’ve invited Douglas and Amanda – if you can force yourself away from - whatever it is you do - and those books of yours. Seven thirty. We’ll have drinks on the roof terrace first. They’ll stay here. 

 

James, avoiding contact with Charley, makes his way towards the hall chair, and sits down heavily, legs splaying as he bends over to put on his shoes. Like them, he looks immaculate: crisp white shirt, pale blue silk tie, dark grey trousers, black leather belt, short dark hair flecked with grey. 

 

Charley sits down on the bottom stair, damp hair like strings. Strings that cling, like a marionette, to the tops of her arms, her blotched neck and face. Legs open, she looks at the rug, placing her elbows on her knees letting the strings fall around her face, her hands cupping her chin, head lowering. Her eyes find and focus on a tiny ball of fluff; she watches the light play with its airy, delicate emptiness as it jumps back and forth, back and forth, on an imperceptible thread in a desperate bid to escape. 

 

She doesn’t feel the stair beneath her, the softness of the rug on her feet; she can only hear the sound of his quickening breath, the knotting and tightening of shoelaces, the shuffling of shoes, the creaking of the antique chair as he bends over, as he stands up, the flap and rub of fabric as arms slide into a pale blue silk-lined jacket, the solid crack as his hand snatches a bag, the squeal of new leather against floor tiles, the clunk and slap of the front door as it opens and swings. Sounds amplifying in her absent presence. Her hands now covering her ears yet she listens. Her breathing pauses. Still, no click from the old latch. She strains to hear. With closed eyes. Just the static of blood pushing against her ears. 

 

She breathes in. Head lifting. Eyes opening. 

 

 

Waiting.

​

​