Free Painkiller by N.J. Fountain Page B

puppy and fell silent. We sat there, trying to think of something else to talk about. Eventually, we groped to a few subjects, and the conversation spluttered back to life.
    We met more times, and chatted amiably like old friends. I was relieved that Niall obediently dropped it, but I felt that he was always hovering over the subject of my accident, like a drowsy bee near a flower, waiting until it was safe to land.
    I just couldn’t face it.
     
Monica
     
    Back to today. I park in the hotel car park, and walk into the reception area.
    It’s been months since I last met Niall here. The hotel has had a facelift, like hotels do, because, like women, they can never decide if the world wants them to be practical or decorative. This particular hotel was moving from functional brown to stylish cream. Gone were the thick chairs with the dark wipe-clean panels; now there are curved taupe sofas with pale leather cushions.
    Next year, after those pretty cream cushions become filthy grey, I guarantee it’ll probably go back to functional.
    I can’t make up my mind whether I’m hard-wearing or decorative, because I feel the accident split me in two and made me into both; like a tiny doll with pink accessories and gorgeous hair discovered in the wreckage of a plane crash. As my weary and confused husband knows, there’s just no way to talk, to relate to, to just
be
with me, nothing that encompasses both facets of who or what I am. I’m very vulnerable and yet life has proved me invulnerable; an elegant vase that falls and smashes into a million pieces and yet stays whole, all at that same moment.
    Niall is sitting uncomfortably on one of the new, impractical sofas, and he springs up to meet me, lunging to carry my bag.
    ‘You’re here. Great. Finally,’ he says, unnecessarily.
    He’s got a look on his face. I’ve seen that look before. He looks like a wounded date, left waiting for hours in a restaurant, drinking water and chewing the flowers, hoping she turns up before the kitchens close.
    I know I hadn’t seen him in months but I do have a habit of not showing up. My condition often derails my day. Niall’s making me feel guilty. He has no
right
to make me feel guilty. I feel tension gathering in my shoulders.
    ‘I’ve already got the room downstairs,’ he says, gesturing to the lifts. ‘Shall we go?’
    Back in the steamy atmosphere of the massage room, I manage to relax a little. I dip into the changing rooms and shrug off my shirt and skirt. The hotel dressing gown is there waiting for me, soft and freshly laundered.
    I lie on the table, and brace myself. Niall is too eager to get started, and his hands are still cold. I suck in a sharp breath. He doesn’t notice.
    ‘Where have you been? I haven’t seen you for months.’
    ‘The usual. Pain. It’s been rough. I haven’t been up to visiting.’
    ‘You didn’t reply to my texts.’
    ‘No I didn’t. The pain stops me doing little things too. I have told you that. Oww. I guess you weren’t listening.’
    ‘I thought you’d disappeared again. Forgotten about me.’
    ‘It’s been rough. I haven’t been up to coming out.’
    His knuckles press into the small of my back and drag ever so slowly up my spine. The agony is immediate and profound.
    ‘Fuck…’
    Niall ignores my expletive.
    ‘If you can’t come out, then I should come to see you.’
    ‘I’ve told you that as well. I’m a private person. I don’t want you coming to my house. I don’t want therapy at home.’
    ‘I’m not anyone.’ He sounds hurt.
    ‘Sorry, Niall. I’ve got nothing against you, but my home is my sanctuary. It’s my personal place where I try to conduct a normal life, as wife and human being and normal member of the human race —’
    I gasp at the sudden pressure.
    ‘— Mr Atos comes into my home every six months and I feel I have to fumigate the place. I don’t want therapists and consultants in my house, sitting on my sofa and turning my house into a surrogate