Chapter 52: Paths Diverge
Sitting in her chair, Cully glanced at the folded paper in her hands again, the blank outside hiding the scribbled words inside. Maybe an hour ago, she'd abandoned her attempt to fall asleep, too frustrated by the tossing and turning. Just lying in her bed, opening and closing her eyes to the faint glow of moonlight trickling through the edges of her window, the left side of her head had begun to pulse with a dull ache deep beneath her skull. Clamoring out of bed at least released the worst of the pressure...but now her mind was wide awake.
She opened the page, the paper crinkling between her fingers. What was it, two weeks ago that she had hastily jotted down the details, hardly more than a name—an address—a date—a time. Three? It had lain atop her clock, gleaming in the lamplight when she lay in bed reading late into the evening, a whispered possibility. "Maybe," it hissed, low and slithering into her ear. "Maybe. What harm does it do?"
Well, that was a silly question, wasn't it? She already knew the answer, had already lived through the answer—as had he. But...could she do this again, wait and watch for him to push her away, no matter how kindly? If he couldn't even confide in her something so simple, what else was there to expect? With a quick glance at her clock—nearly midnight—Cully slouched back, drawing one of her feet up. Over the last hours, her thoughts had refused to fall silent, chasing new memories that already cut deep.
For the past couple of weeks, her grandmother's battered copy of Oscar Wilde's works had sat on her bedside table. The spine was scratched on the bottom, damaged from a lifetime of scraping along a wooden shelf, the corners crushed in. Some evenings, despite the refusal of the Playhouse to commit or deny the rumor, she still flipped through Salomé. Some of her opening lines—the longing for the moon especially—troubled Cully, even after a few complete readings.
Sometimes, she skimmed through his other plays, happy memories of another production at the Playhouse rising with The Importance of Being Earnest. Cully still remembered its opening night, her father and Gavin vanishing in the interval, almost disappearing until the following evening. Only to be expected, she knew, at least occasionally, but understanding that reality didn't make it less irritating.
Her eyes flicked to her clock: quarter to ten, nearly an hour since they'd spoken so briefly, since he had promised—even if in other words—to call her back. In the interim, she'd showered, toweling her hair dry before organizing her things for the next morning, then answering a text from a secondary school friend. She reached for the thick collection of Wilde's work behind it, brushing the other, thinner book that sat on top of it aside. A slip of paper marked the beginning of Salomé in the middle of the tome, but she flipped to that other play, settling back in her bed and another clutch of memories. The first few pages, filled with Wilde's typical banter, flew by. For the briefest moment, Cully found herself in the wings of the Playhouse during rehearsal as the actors muddled through their lines, halted now and then by the director for a correction.
'My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is perfectly disgraceful. It is almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts with you.'
'I am in love with Gwendolen. I have come up to town expressly to propose to her.'
'I thought you had come up for pleasure?...I call that business.'
'How utterly unromantic you are!'
'I really don't see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then the excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty.'
Cully snapped the book closed on her finger, resting the bottom edge of the book on her thighs. 'It is very romantic to be in love,' Algernon had said. "I suppose it must be," she whispered, drumming her fingers along the spine, the crackling binding rough against her skin. And how very unsurprising, his final words. "I suppose only a few people could find that type of uncertainty appealing."
But not you.
"It's nice to know..."
Know what?
"What you are to—people."
I suppose it is.
Cully shook her head as she drew her finger from between the pages of the old book in her hands, sliding it beneath the other volume on her table. "It's not as though I don't."
Then why did you stop reading?
She tossed her quilt aside, twisting around to plant her bare feet onto the carpet. As the dark quiet of the night crept over her each evening, that little voice rose, whispering those hushed questions from its hidden home deep in her mind. Pressing the heel of her palms against her eyes, Cully let out a deep breath. I don't know, she answered herself, her left eye suddenly itching and almost on fire, like a lash had lodged beneath the lid. Tugging it up, she blinked heavily.
Something lay in front of her, something she couldn't quite touch. Nebulous, tucked behind a filmy veil, beyond her grasp—and if she reached out her hand, stretched her arm as far as she could, it fluttered away as her fingers just brushed against it. Did it even matter, these nagging thoughts? Of course it does, she thought, still rubbing at the outer corner of her eye. And you know it does.
The uneasiness was growing and weighing on her chest, worst as she struggled to sleep at night. Her tossing and turning in the wake of memories had calmed, replaced by the emptiness of confusion and uncertainty. Even a week ago, the ebb and flow of the questions in her mind had refused to cease altogether, one worry chasing after another. They promised light and dark—answers and accusations—all while soothing and scouring something deep within.
The burning in her eye was fading as she glanced at the clock again—now nearly ten—and the two books behind it. Atop the ancient collection of Wilde's works, her old copy of Noises Off with its blue cardboard cover and binding could have been a child's prop. She had found it earlier in the week, adding it to her bedside table—
Bzzt...Bzzt. The tiny front screen of her mobile was bright with the chilly blue letters. Reaching for it, she had no doubts: Gavin. Flipping it open, she pressed it to her cheek as she curled her legs up again. "I was starting to wonder again," she said quietly.
"No. I just picked something up on the drive home..." His voice faded into silence, though she heard rustling in its stead, like paper scratching against itself.
"Gavin? Is—"
"It's nothing."
She narrowed her eyes. More often than not, Gavin spoke before he thought, not the other way round. "I didn't say anything."
"Sorry, just—nothing."
"It sounds like it's something."
"Don't worry about it."
"Is everything all right?" Cully asked, drawing her quilt up over her legs. If he was standing here before her, she knew he would refuse to meet her gaze, and perhaps even his cheeks would be tinged pink.
"Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"
"I don't know, you tell me."
"Cully—"
"You don't sound the same." She ran her free hand over one of her calves, her palm chilly against the soft quilt.
"I just..." He sighed, tinny in her ear. "I had an nasty conversation, before I left CID."
Of course, Cully thought. "What about?" And even without another word, she already had a fear bubbling up, the reason why.
"Doesn't really matter."
Why won't you tell me? "If it's bothering you, then it does matter." He didn't answer. "Gavin?"
"He can make anything miserable."
Her forehead wrinkled. What is that supposed to mean? she wondered. "Who are you talking about?"
"Just—one of the DIs. Doesn't know when to keep his trap shut, or when anyone wants to know his opinion."
She almost laughed: Gavin complaining about someone else putting his foot in his mouth. "Not your favorite person, whoever he is?"
"Not at all."
"Then why do you let him get under your skin?" she asked, falling back against the wall.
"I'm not sure, just..."
"What?"
"He reminds me of someone else, that's all."
"Who?"
"Please don't worry about it, Cully."
"Gavin—"
"It's nothing—"
"Yes, it is." Cully shook her head, ignoring her tousled, just damp hair as it brushed her cheeks.
"Cully—"
"I can hear it upset you. You sound different." She took another breath, leaning forward once more as a spray of goosebumps rose along her arms. At times, being with Gavin was a difficult ford to navigate, not that he was entirely to blame. Her own words with her father had taught her that. "Please—don't shut me out."
"That's not it."
"Then what is it?" After another few quiet seconds, she added, "Gavin?"
"Ah...Look, can I call you tomorrow, Cully?" he asked quietly.
"Of course." What was he doing now, she wondered. Sitting at his tiny kitchen table, ready to bolt whatever he had found on his drive home, his tie loose and his suit coat discarded, thinking...and for once, not speaking. "Really, what's the matter?"
"Nothing. It was a...long day, that's all, and not how I'd wanted to end it."
"Well, it doesn't sound like it was all that pleasant."
"That wasn't really what I meant."
"Oh?"
"Well, I'd rather not just be talking with you, if I'm honest."
Yes, his skin was definitely pink now, Cully could see it. And the words riding beneath the ones he'd spoken...oh yes, she had heard them clearly. Even when she recalled last Friday evening and his openness, his new willingness to be seen—really seen—by prying eyes, moments beyond this were stolen and precious. "It sounds like you're flirting with me."
"Maybe." Was he remembering what she was, the hunger of that Sunday afternoon raging and gnawing, nearly rough and painful in its immediacy, surging from nothing to consuming? As she had lain there beneath him—struggling to find another breath—in that briefest second, she had glimpsed a new world: bleary and unformed, yet somehow bright and gleaming, waiting to be grasped as his fingers danced over her bare skin.
"Thank you for hearing me out," he went on.
It shattered, cracked and broken like a mirror dashed against the ground. "Of course. I just wish..." With a shiver, she stopped, pulling her knees closer and tighter against the chilly night air, shrinking even smaller. A few short days ago, the future and possibilities had shone bright and limitless, and now something as simple as "How was your day?" turned difficult. Not now, she thought. There were other times to explore that question. "I'll talk to you then."
Folding her phone closed, she dropped it on the side table, ignoring the clattering as it landed behind her clock: a few minutes after ten. She rubbed at her newly heavy eyelids, the left eye still tender after scrubbing out that eyelash. "What's wrong, Gavin?" she whispered, sliding back under her quilt and sheets. Rolling onto her side, she squinted against the patch of lamplight before she extinguished it and pressed her cheek into her pillow. Cully closed her eyes and stretched out her fingers, twisting them into that white sheet. Cold, not warm; smooth, not rough. If she just forced her mind back a week ago, she could almost feel his hand instead.
X X X
She lost track of how long she lay in bed: closing her eyes for a few minutes, opening them anew, the pattering of minutes achingly slow. Just above her left eye, a gentle throb was emerging from deep in her brain. Probably no thanks to that stupid eyelash. Reaching for the chain on her lamp, she clenched her eyes before tugging on it, opening them slowly to the glare. Just through the curtains at her window, the last sliver of the moon gleamed, ready to fade into darkness over the next few nights, leaving only the stars.
Her shirt was twisted up around her torso, caught as she turned over one time after another. Rising onto one of her elbows, she yanked it back around her waist, then dropped back onto her mattress; smacking the back of her skull against her pillow didn't help that dull pulsing. Pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead brought it down, but there wasn't much reason to continue struggling to sleep. She was still thoroughly awake, tossing back her bedding as she finally sat up straight. Past eleven, she saw.
"Well, that's something to do," she muttered, catching sight of her mobile's charger, the cord hanging free. After her conversation with Gavin ended, she'd only tossed her mobile onto the table, not bothering to plug it in. Just able to reach the black wire, she thrust it into the charging port. She dropped her feet onto the carpet as she had before, wiggling her toes against the fibers. Her mouth was suddenly dry, desperate for water. Like that will help falling asleep, she thought as she stood, stretching one arm into the air. Not that you're doing well at that anyway.
The overhead lights in the hallway were dark, just the smallest glow from above the baseboard to brighten the path. At the bend in the corridor, she tapped her hand to the wall, following the turn just at the stop of the staircase. She took each step carefully, not wanting to disturb her parents; the ground floor was inky black, not a single light to break through the darkness until her own fingers snapped up the switch at the base of the stairs.
In the middle of the night with just one single patch of lamplight brightening the room, shadows she hardly noticed before crept from the corners of the front room. No shape or form, no body or object to cast them, but grey and faded, like the white paint on the walls lay imprisoned beneath them...waiting, wondering. Nothing crept within the shadows—even as a child she hadn't been scared of the dark—but it wasn't that troubling her: rather instead, it was the same uneasiness that had settled in her stomach after she and Gavin said goodbye an hour earlier. Uncertainty, the unknown, dancing before her eyes. She shivered as she moved quicker to the kitchen, flicking the switch for the overhead light with her thumb. It shone brighter than the showier one in the front room, and the nascent pain in her head pounded harder with the sudden illumination.
Half filling a glass, Cully sipped at the cool water, the parched scratchiness lessening with each mouthful. Through the window sat over the kitchen sink, she could just make out the shapes in the back garden: the thickened trunks of trees, the stout mounds of fading bushes and shrubs, the small table on the patio with its chairs and collapsed umbrella, lifeless until late spring reappeared with warmer weather in tow.
Setting her empty glass beside the sink, she made her way back to the staircase, glaring at those same shadows in the front room—before biting her lip at the silliness of it. She paused at the washroom before returning to her bedroom, splashing a handful of water across her face, dabbing it away with a washcloth. Her left eye was still tinged red from scrubbing against the stupid eyelash, but thin blue circles lay beneath both, as if she had been awake until well into the new morning. Simple enough to cover with makeup, but she had watched them darken over the last couple days, after...She drew a sharp breath, pressing her hands against her cheeks. "Why?" she whispered. "It's already a hard enough choice."
Turning off the light and crossing the hallway back to her bedroom, she closed the door, now holding her fingers to her forehead. The pressure above her eye began to abate as she leaned back against the door, her hip bumping the handle. If she was honest, she'd almost forgotten about Cambridge since she had first mentioned it to her parents over the dinner. Apart from the sparest details scrawled on a gently crumpled piece of paper, she didn't really know much about it. As she traipsed across the carpet again, dropping back into her bed as she pushed a couple locks of hair from her face, her eyes drifted to the pair of books atop her bedside table.
Her ancient copy of Noises Off beckoned with its bent and crumpled corners, the thin cardboard cover torn from those weeks long ago of being tossed into her bag, its glued binding fraying at the top and bottom. Within, the pages were filled with penciled notes, erased and rewritten so many times, a few patches were nearly worn threadbare. The trouble working with Paul Pearson, she thought, reaching for the script. She flipped through a few of the pages, past the faux notes for Nothing On; to Mrs. Clackett's bumbling about with the newspaper, the phone, and the sardines; to Roger and Vicki's mangled first entrance; and finally to all of them dropping the pretense of the play-within-a-play. Around Brooke/Vicki's lines, some of the pencil had smudged to an almost illegible smear of grey.
True, she didn't particularly care to be in the same play twice, but...she hadn't been able to cast it from her mind, not since Tuesday afternoon. And now, hardly able to get a word from Gavin...the questions from then echoed louder.
Despite their size, the books she clutched between her arm and her chest weren't heavy; most were just the larger picture books many a mother took out for their younger boys and girls, often with them at their knees. As she slid them onto the dark wooden shelves—one toward the top, one down almost at the very bottom—Cully smiled at a few familiar titles. Mr. Gumpy's Outing, a pair of the Thomas the Tank Engine volumes, one or two longer books for a year 3 or 4—
"Cully?"
She looked up, any voice unusual during an early Tuesday afternoon now that school was in session for autumn. "Hmm?" Aside from those young mothers, her regular weekday patrons were typically pensioners, usually perusing the shelves for an Agatha Christie novella or an item from Doyle's extensive works, sometimes shaking their heads at some of the more popular, newer publications. But this woman—young yet without a child's hand clutched in her own, waved reddish-brown hair bouncing about her round face, a dark jacket layered over a white blouse, and a couple books poking out of the black bag on her shoulder—was out of place.
"Cully!" the woman called again, her low voice louder. "The hell are you doing here?"
She sounded familiar, someone Cully should remember, like a friend from school or a fellow actor from some play long in the past. No...She suddenly recognized that hair, the red almost a burgundy shot through the darker locks, a color almost anyone else would pay dearly for. And those alto tones, laden with sarcasm and dark, biting wit. "Gemma?" she said after a few seconds.
"Who else?"
Cully laughed. How long since she had seen her? Years—at least that long—when she left her art history course in university for drama and the theater. They hadn't been the closest friends, but more than just sharing a quick conversation over a coffee. "I could ask you the same thing!"
"Visiting my gran for the week, that's all."
"I didn't realize you had family here."
"She lives in Midsomer Worthy...four or five years now, I think. Moved there after my grandfather died."
"She might have wanted to know a few things about Midsomer before that," Cully said under her breath, sliding another book onto her shelf.
"I'm taking her on a couple of errands this afternoon. What about you? I haven't heard from you in ages!"
"Just resting after a local production. We just finished Pygmalion...a month ago?"
"Oh?" She sounded surprised.
Cully looked back at her, setting the last couple books in a gap on the shelf in front of her. "Yes."
"Why here?"
"I was just spending some time with Mum and Dad—when the auditions for it started." It was near enough the truth, not that it really mattered in this moment.
"Weren't you in London for a while?"
"I wouldn't say that exactly," Cully said, stepping away from the wall. "This spring, and then maybe a year and a half, two years ago."
"Sounds like a while to me."
"Really, it was just long enough for a couple shows to run their course."
"Are you going back soon?"
Cully crossed her arms, swallowing as she thought for a moment. "It wasn't enough to decide to stay as a matter of course." Truth will out, she thought. If nothing else, that disastrous Pearson show still left a sour taste in her mouth.
"How long do you think you'll stay?" Gemma asked, at last slipping her hand into her bag, retrieving three books. "In Causton, I mean."
Her eyes flicked to the clock above the door, the clock's hands ticking just past half one. "I—I don't know," she finally said, reaching out for the books Gemma had. Two Agatha Christies and one thin volume: a short introduction to architecture. She added them to the small stack of children's books. "And I'm not sure, if I'll go to London."
"Why not?"
Cully pushed her hair behind her ears, her fingers beginning to twitch. She didn't recall Gemma talking quite so much, apart from her sharp comments. "I'm just thinking something different might be nice: change of scenery, something like that."
"Do you have an idea?"
"I have my eye on something, up in Cambridge." Her pulse rose for a few beats. She hadn't really thought much more about it since the previous Friday, when she had shoved it aside, lost in the evening and simple happiness and...something else she still didn't know. "At least while the local committee is dithering," she added swiftly, wondering if her face was red like Gavin's often was.
"Best of luck with that," Gemma said, leaning forward and kissing Cully's cheek lightly. "Sorry, I told Gran I'd be quick. Maybe I'll see you around before I leave."
"That would be lovely." It would be something to look forward to, certainly.
"Cheers!" And turning around, taking the steps to the street with fast, sharp clicks like the heel of a shoe, Gemma was gone.
That brief exchange—not even five minutes—had clung to her mind since Tuesday. And most of all, those questions. "Weren't you in London for a while?" "How long do you think you'll stay?" Gemma hadn't meant anything by them, just following her trail of thoughts and asking all the sorts of things you might ask a university friend after a few years. "Why not?" Another easy question…But the answer? Some days and nights, it slipped away, a handful of sand streaming between her fingers and leaving only a few grains clinging to her palm.
She could hardly sit still, like her body was as alert as her mind. Tossing the script back, Cully found herself on her feet again, taking a few steps across her bedroom. Even that first day, she had wondered how had she come to be here, instead of returning to where she had been. Without her voice...it would have come to nothing, she remembered how uncomfortable he first appeared. Perhaps it shouldn't surprise her, in the end.
Her eyes scanned the words on that page again, lingering on the initial one. Cambridge. This isn't the same, she told herself. It couldn't be the same, if she went. This was not vanishing as her frustration and anger grew, or when the nearness and realness of life stared her down with an unflinching glare and dared her to invite more of that fear within, beneath the veneer of...She looked down once more before folding the paper again.
But how long could she stay, why did she continue to stay? She had been wondering that for the last couple of weeks, apart from those brief, bright hours. Well, Cully knew, but that answer was the one slipping away, no matter how desperately she tried to clutch it closer. Dropping the note on her script, her gaze rose to the small collection of books that had never quite made it from her parents' home as she struggled to find and make her own way in the world. A few novels, poetry, one or two art history texts as relics from her first university course, and a larger selection of plays: many standalone, some collections of shorter works.
She stood, taking a few fast steps to the small cream colored bookcase. As she crouched, Cully ran a hand over her bare arm, shivering again. At the far end of the bottom shelf, a narrow yellow spine caught her eye and she tugged it forward with an extended finger. When it came away, she flipped the front cover to the light: The Murder Room, Jack Sharkey. Her mouth turned up in a small smile. The bones of its plot still stuck in her mind; a few years ago she had auditioned for Mavis, though she not been cast in the end. Nico had breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief when she received the brief letter…
Her smile vanished. Nico rarely crossed her mind, hadn't for quite some time, simply because...he hadn't. There was no need, worrying about yesterday, a time that had flickered and dimmed and gone out, snuffed by growth and change. Their life together remained a happy memory, but one entirely in the past, nothing more.
Quickly rising to her feet, still holding the script, Cully took a breath as the blood rushed from her head and her vision swarmed for a moment. What else do you expect? she asked herself, closing her eyes. Still, wasn't that the trouble? She knew what she expected—and what she wanted, but...they lay in opposite directions, at the end of two different paths emerging in her mind.
Even with all their words over the past week, sometimes Gavin felt so distant. Tonight...he spoke as though a wall had dropped between them, leaving her with the memories—reaching out into the silence and solitude, trying to draw him back. And wondering...had she made a mistake? No matter what she desired—no matter how deeply it sometimes pounded in her chest—Cully couldn't quite cast the uncertainty aside. Despite the past and change and lust...the whispering never quite ceased completely. Tomorrow, she thought. Worry about it tomorrow.*
Adding her new script to the small pile of books, Cully climbed into her bed for what she hoped was the final time, thrusting her legs beneath her sheets and quilt again. She tugged those covers higher, tucking them beneath her arm before pulling the chain on her lamp, plunging her bedroom into darkness but for the thin remnant of the moon and stars. They still shone bright around the curtains, muted through the pale gauzy fabric. She clenched her eyes, shutting out even the barest light. The world was dull and quiet, and Cully didn't care to look at any of it. Not now.
* If you can identify the late '90s/early '00s song and band this paragraph is referencing...you may have revealed your age, too.
A/N: Cully's friend is an OC. As I've said before, I'm unconcerned by OCs in small roles (Mary Sues and Gary Stus can go to hell); I'm more interested in moving the story forward than researching small canon characters; and research would have cut into my time falling down the rabbit hole on YouTube known as The Thinking Atheist. (Highly recommended podcast.)