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Something that isn’t there

The power of our loveby Annie Harrison

James Merryweather is my love. I love James Merryweather and he loves

me. Our love is all consuming. It’s so powerful that it literally takes my breath

away. Wherever I am, whatever I am doing, James is with me. I cannot have

a thought or make a decision without his pervasive loving approval. He is my

life, my rock and my purpose. Without this deep love, I would be merely a dry

husk in an empty vessel. I cannot imagine the void were he not there, yet we

endure an enforced physical separation. I lie awake at night and weep bitter,

frustrated tears, as I yearn for him to put his arms around me and draw me to

him. He is a drug that I crave yet cannot have, and it burns pain into my

heart. But I must be strong, because this time in our lives is only temporary.

We will be together forever, soon.

I love James’ every nuance – the way he speaks, his gentle laugh, the angle

of his jaw, the blond curls on his head. Even the glint of his watch and the

hairs on his wrist, the shape of his nails and that crooked grin. Every single

thing he does fills me with love, from the way he parks his car at the station -

the front tyres turned very slightly to the left – always, to the Coldplay ringtone

on his mobile. I sometimes leave unsigned notes on his windscreen, ‘I love

you xxx’. I smile when I think of him placing these notes in his pocket, but he

has never told me where he keeps them. I notice every subtlety about him

and I drink him up.

But our relationship is clandestine. It is a hush, hush secret and no one must

know. I want to shout to the world, ‘I love James Merryweather’, but I cannot.

Pain holds our secret. Pain is the knowledge. Pain is knowing that he is

married to HER and cannot escape her clutches.

Charlotte. She who is smug because she went to Cambridge. The goody

two-shoes oncologist, who just because she can play the piano becomes the

after-dinner centre of attention. With her Colefax and Fowler wallpaper, and

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her Mercedes SL she glories in her own being. But she’s not pretty or 

desirable. She’s incapable of feeling or expressing love and lives at the

epicentre of her own life. Oh James, what a terrible aberration! You married

HER you fool!

‘Lottie’ has her suspicions of course. She must know that when he’s

reluctantly making love to her at night, he’s imagining our ecstasy. He closes

his eyes and wills Charlotte to be me.

Last Saturday I followed him. I just wanted to see him and feel his presence.

He turned around several times, because he felt me near. But he’s so smart.

He gave nothing away. First he drove to a tool shop in Dartmouth. Then he

went to Oddbins and bought some wine and ended up at The Anchor where

he drank a couple of pints of Guinness with two men I didn’t recognise. How I

envied those two men, to have James’ undivided attention for one hour and

seventeen glorious minutes. They laughed a lot, and I was pleased to see

him so happy. At one point, he stared out of the window at the boats on the

river, and I knew he was thinking of me. I hid amongst the throng of drinkers

in a dark corner, glimpsing his profile through jostling shoulders, aching with

love.

Last night, we were all at the Fentons for dinner. There were fourteen of us

and I was seated almost opposite James. He’s so discreet. Just the slightest

nod and smile in my direction, so as not to raise suspicion as he talked to the

two crones either side of him. But that subtle movement was all it took to

receive a blast of his love. My heart leapt, as I was sure others at the table

could feel the force of our mutual adoration, unearthing our secret. And he

kissed me before we all left at the end of the evening. Once on each cheek,

hurriedly so no one would notice. Then he disappeared down the front steps

into the dark – followed by his bloodsucking bitch of a wife.