Free The Woman Before Me by Ruth Dugdall Page B

his bedroom and not pestering me. I know he comes here when I’m not around. Sometimes he comes in to catch me off guard, loving it when I jump out of my skin. “What you up to, fatso?” he demands, and I holler at him to go away. I tell Dad, but he won’t put a lock on my door, so I have to remember to wedge a chair under the handle.
    I don’t peep through my hole when Dad is in the bedroom, because that wouldn’t be right. In the mornings, when I hear the clink of the milk deliveries van and the chirp of a radio from downstairs, then I know it’s safe. Dad is in the shop and Mrs Carron is alone.
    It was so cunning how she did it, moving in so slowly that I don’t think Dad even noticed. First it was just a toothbrush and a comb, and then a few dresses squeezed in next to Mum’s. But then, through my spy hole, I watched her taking Mum’s dresses out and toss them into bin bags. I saw her pause over Mum’s best blouse, the white silky one that she wore at Christmas, and hold it against herself. I could see it would fit her, but still she threw it away, as if my mum could be put out for the dustmen to collect like everything else that had been discarded.
    Later, when Mrs Carron was in the shop with Dad, I went to the bedroom.
    Her clothes were not like Mum’s, but shimmery and thin. ‘She’ll catch her death in that!’ Mum would have said, and there was nothing comfortable or warm. No trousers, either, just narrow skirts and tight dresses. One dress caught my eye; it was the colour of rubies, and silky. I held it close to me, just as she had held my mother’s blouse. I could hear Peter’s guitar and voices from the shop. It was the busy hour when school ended and kids arrived to buy sweets. It took just seconds to pull off my sweater and jeans.
    Standing in just my knickers I looked tall and plump. I would soon need a bra, and my stomach was round. The dress looked awful on me, clinging in all the wrong places so I looked like an over-ripe strawberry. Red wasn’t my colour; it drained me, left me looking bloodless. I squeezed the flesh bumps of my chest, wondered what kind of woman I would become. Mum didn’t wear green eye shadow or pink lipstick. She didn’t smell of musk. Suddenly, I was aware that Peter had stopped playing his guitar and his heavy steps were heading my way. I was struggling out of the dress when he opened the door.
    “What are you doing?” he turned pink when he saw my bare flesh.
    “I don’t know.” All I knew was that Dad loved Mrs Carron and I wanted to be loved. By putting on her clothes maybe I could understand. Make myself lovable.
    “You’re a bit old for dressing up, aren’t you?” he snorted, “Freak!” He slammed the door behind him in disgust.
    I stepped out of the crimson fabric, pulling on my own clothes as fast as I could. He was right; I was too old for this game. I was a freak, and no-one liked me. The only boy who ever fancied me was Alfie, the class idiot who had a permanent sneer on his pitted face. He openly stared in class, his fingers scratching his legs, and the other girls would whisper, ‘Your boyfriend’s looking at you!’ One day, in the playground, I punched one girl so hard her nose bled, but it was just after Mum died so the teachers didn’t do anything. No-one bothered me after that, they just stayed away. Without Mum I was so lonely.
    That night I had a nightmare. I was wrapped in red winding silk, and it was so hot my skin burned. Mum was there, trying desperately to cool my blistering arms, a damp sponge on my neck. I felt her arms around me, the safety of her love, and cried, waking to find that the arms comforting me were Mrs Carron’s.
    I pulled back in a fury, the shame and guilt of betraying my mother. She tried to soothe me. “It’s just a bad dream, Rose,” she said.
    I pushed her away like she was on fire, like her embrace could kill me.
    It’s not nice to admit it, Jason, but loyal people can also be violent; the same passion