Melissa’s visit
When Melissa appeared on my doorstep, I should have been delighted; this was my best friend, and I hadn’t seen her since my mum’s funeral. But all I could think about was how much Mark disliked her and how awkward it would be if he knew she had turned up. Although Mark was at work, I felt nervous and had an unreasonable fear that he would find out.
For some reason, Mark had taken an instant dislike to Melissa from the moment that he first met her. I was never sure what the problem was. Perhaps they were just too different. She was warm, outspoken and funny, whereas he was reserved, and saved his affections for the few people that he really loved.
Melissa swept me into a hug, but I stood stiffly in the embrace, trying to calculate how long it had been since Mark left and the chances of him returning early. Recently he’d taken to leaving the house and then returning shortly afterwards because he had forgotten something. A few weeks before he had set out for a day trip to his parents, but returned after an hour, letting himself in silently through the back door.
I wished that I had not opened the door. It crossed my mind to invent some excuse and try to stop Melissa from getting past the doorstep, but I was not quick enough and before I had a chance to think clearly, Melissa was in the house and heading down the hall.
“So,” said Melissa as she sprawled on the sofa as if we were picking up a conversation. There was nothing to suggest that I had been dodging her calls for months.
She was dressed in one of her trademark tight tubular red dresses. Her hair was cut into a shoulder-length bob; much shorter than the last time I saw her. It suited her but I felt a pang at the loss of her long dark curls. I used to love playing with her hair and so many of our conversations took place whilst I plaited or arranged her hair. She had sunk back into the cushions and her feet couldn’t reach the floor, so she stretched them out on the sofa. It was such a familiar, yet shocking, pose. I am not sure anyone had put their feet on the sofa since Mark bought it. I was immensely relieved that she had taken her biker boots off, although she seemed surprised that I would ask her to.
Melissa looked around my living room in surprise. The two matching sofas were placed opposite each other, with a slim coffee table in between. They were covered with a beige Draylon, with a faint floral pattern picked out in green. Mark’s Mum helped him chose them. He had them in his old flat and like most of his furniture, it was moved into the house we bought together and arranged in the same formations. The bottoms of the sofas were fringed. I cringed looking at them through Melissa’s eyes. There were a couple of landscape prints on the wall, but other than two framed photographs on the mantelpiece, the room was bare of any ornaments. A small box of Zach’s toys was neatly stacked in the corner. I’d left the hoover in the middle of the floor when I went to answer the door.
“I was just cleaning,” said I when I noticed Melissa looking at it.
But she didn’t seem that interested in the hoover. “Where have you put your painting?”
The painting she was referring to was a massive canvas, in orange, red and dark blues. I had painted it in the summer after I finished my A levels; sitting in my mum’s garden, surrounded by marigolds, delphiniums and lupins. If you looked closely, you could see flecks of thunder bugs and other little insects that had crashed into the wet oil paint. Every time I looked at it, I could feel the warmth of the sun and remember that tremendous sense of freedom, knowing that my exams were behind me, and the excitement of university lay ahead. It travelled with me from flat to flat, always hanging in the living room.
I had fought hard to find a place for it when we moved in together, but Mark said it was too gaudy and amateur for any of the rooms. He was right, it would have looked out of place. Still, the house did not feel like my home without it.
“Mark thought it was a bit too bright. It’s in the roof now.” Melissa was one of the few people who would understand how much of a sacrifice it was for me and I steeled myself for her comments.
She surprised me by saying very little about it.
“It’s a shame, I always loved that picture.” Melissa looked around the room again, seemingly speechless. I grabbed the hoover and put it away in the cupboard. I still had not hoovered the room, but I thought it might look a bit odd if I did the hoovering whilst Melissa was sitting watching me. Although I must be honest, it did cross my mind. I was not sure when she was leaving, and I needed to finish the cleaning before Mark got home.
When I came back into the living room I sat awkwardly on the sofa opposite Melissa.
Melissa looked at me intently. “So, how are you I?” and before I could answer she carried on. “You are looking very thin. I mean, I know we all want to be thinner, but I’ve never seen you as thin as this. I was quite worried when I saw you at your Mum’s funeral and you look even thinner now.”
Melissa had always been the most direct of all my friends. She also had more emotional bravery than anyone else I knew. She never shied away from difficult conversations, and it was becoming clear that she had turned up unexpectedly to have a difficult conversation. I tried to think of something to say to forestall the grilling that was coming my way.
PHOTO of painting by Niamh Bryan
KLAXON is a new novel and thriller about a woman seeking to escape an abusive and dangerous relationship. This web site publishes news about Klaxon - as the book is read by more and more people - and articles about coercive control and domestic abuse issues. It also aims to provide information that can be of use to victims. If you would like to get involved with this web site and/or contribute to the success of Klaxon, please contact the Klaxon team.
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