Three summers ago, Elinor unpacked her bags in the Moscow Hotel down at the far end of Nevsky Prospekt. She’d never been to Russia before, and when we met that first evening, she radiated a buzz of excitement that enchanted me. We Russians are bound to our native land by a terrible, doomed sentimental attachment, and we are predisposed to like anyone who shows the slightest sign of sharing that love.
But there was more than that linking us from the very beginning. Anyone who has ever been in an abusive relationship has had their mental map altered forever. It’s hard to explain precisely how that manifests itself, but once you’ve been there, you recognise it in another. An almost imperceptible flicker in the eyes; some tiny shift in the body language; an odd moment of deference in the dialogue. Whatever the signals, they’re subconsciously registered by those of us who are members of the same club. In that very first encounter, I read that kinship between myself and Elinor.
By the time I met Elinor, I was well clear of the marriage that had thrown me off balance, turned me from a confident, assured professional woman into a bundle of insecurities. I was back on even keel, in control of my own destiny and certain I would never walk into that nightmare again. I wasn’t so sure about Elinor.
She seemed poised and assertive. She was a well-qualified doctor who had gained a reputation for her work on addiction with intravenous drug users in her native Manchester. She was the obvious choice for a month-long exchange visit to share her experiences with local medical professionals and voluntary-sector workers struggling to come to terms with the heroin epidemic sweeping St Petersburg. She exuded a quiet competence and an easy manner. But still, I recognised the secret shame, the hidden scars.
I had been chosen to act as her interpreter because I’d spent two years of my post-graduate medical training in San Francisco. I was nervous about the assignment because I had no formal training in interpreting, but my boss made it clear there was no room for argument. The budget wouldn’t run to a qualified interpreter, and besides, I knew all the technical terminology. I explained this to Elinor over a glass of wine in the halfempty bar after the official dinner with the meeting-and-greeting party.
Some specialists might have regarded my confession as a slight on their importance. But Elinor just grinned and said, ‘Natasha, you’re a doctor, you can probably make me sound much more sensible than I can manage myself. Now, if you’re not rushing off, maybe you can show me round a little, help me get my bearings?’
We walked out of the hotel, round the corner to the Metro station. Her eyes were wide, absorbed by everything. The amputee war veterans round the kiosks; the endless escalator; the young woman slumped against the door of the train carriage, vodka bottle dangling from her fingers, wrecked mascara in snail trails down her cheeks; Elinor drank it all in, tossing occasional questions at me.
We emerged back into daylight at the opposite end of Nevsky Prospekt, and I steered her round the big tourist sights. The cathedral, the Admiralty, the Hermitage, then back along the embankment to the Fontanka Canal. Because she was still operating on UK time, she didn’t really register the White Nights phenomenon at first. It was only when I pointed out that it was already eleven o’clock and she probably needed to think about getting some sleep that she realised her normal cues for waking and sleeping were going to be absent for the next four weeks.
‘How do you cope with the constant light?’ she said, waving an arm at a sky only a couple of shades lighter than her eyes.
I shrugged. ‘I pull the pillow over my head. But your hotel will have heavy curtains, I think.’ I flagged down a passing Lada and asked the driver to take us back to the hotel.
‘It’s all so alien,’ she said softly.
‘It’ll get worse before it gets better,’ I told her. I dropped her at the hotel and kept the car on. As the driver weaved through the potholed streets back to my apartment on Vasilyevsky Ostrov, I couldn’t escape the image of her wide-eyed wondering face.
But then, I wasn’t exactly trying.
Over the next week, I spent most of my waking hours with Elinor. Mostly it was work, constantly stretching my brain to keep pace with the exchange of information that flowed back and forth between Elinor and my colleagues. But in the evenings, we fell into the habit of eating together, then strolling round the city so she could soak up the atmosphere. I didn’t mind. There were plenty of other things I could have been doing, but my friends would still be there after she left town. What I wasn’t allowing myself to acknowledge was that I was falling in love with her.
On the sixth night, she finally started opening up. ‘You know I mentioned my partner?’ she said, filling our wine glasses to avoid my eyes.
‘He’s a lawyer, right?’ I said.
Her mouth twisted up at one corner. ‘He’s a she.’ She flicked a quick glance at me. ‘Does that surprise you?’
I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. For days, I’d been telling myself off for wishful thinking, but I’d been right. ‘It takes one to know one,’ I said.
‘You’re gay?’ Elinor sounded startled.
‘Labels are for medicines,’ I said. ‘But lately, I seem to have given up on men.’
‘You have a girlfriend?’ Now, her eyes were on mine. I didn’t know what to read into their level stare, which unsettled me a little.
‘Nothing serious,’ I said. ‘A friend I sleep with from time to time, when she’s in town. Just fun, for both of us. Not like you.’
She looked away again. ‘No. Not like me.’
Something about the angle of her head, the downcast eyes and the hand that gripped the wine glass told me my first instinct had been right. Whatever she might say next, I knew that this apparently confident woman was in thrall to someone who stripped her of her self-esteem. ‘Tell me about her,’ I said.
‘Her name’s Claire. She’s a lawyer, specialising in intellectual property. She’s very good. We’ve been together ten years. She’s very smart, very strong, very beautiful. She keeps my feet on the ground.’
I wanted to tell her that love should be about flying, not about the force of gravity. But I didn’t. ‘Do you miss her?’
Again, she met my eyes. ‘I thought I would. But I’ve been so busy.’ She smiled. ‘And you’re such good company, you’ve kept me from being lonely.’
‘It’s been my pleasure. Where would you like to go this evening?’
Her gaze was level, unblinking. ‘I’d like to see where you live.’
I tried to stay cool. ‘It’s not very impressive.’
‘You don’t have to impress me. I’d just like to see a real Russian home. I’m fed up with hotels and restaurants.’
So we took the Metro to Vasileostrovskaya and walked down Sredny Prospekt to the Tenth Line, where I live in a two-roomed apartment on the second floor. Buying it took every penny I managed to save in the US, and it’s pretty drab by Western standards, but to a Russian it feels like total luxury to have so much space to oneself. I showed Elinor into the living room with some nervousness. I’d never brought a Westerner home before.
She looked round the white walls with their Chagall posters and the secondhand furniture covered with patchwork throws, then turned to me and smiled. ‘I like it,’ she said.
I turned away, feeling embarrassed. ‘Interior design hasn’t really hit Russia,’ I said. ‘Would you like a drink? I’ve got tea or coffee or vodka.’
‘Vodka, please.’
There is a moment that comes with drinking vodka Russian style when inhibitions slip away. That’s the time to stop drinking, before you get too drunk to do anything with the window of opportunity. I knew Elinor had hit the moment when she leaned into me and said, ‘I really love this country.’
I pushed her dark hair away from her forehead and said, ‘Russia can be a very cruel place. We Russians are dangerous.’
‘You d
on’t feel very dangerous to me,’ she whispered, her breath hot against my neck.
‘I’m Russian. I’m trouble. The two go together like hand in glove.’
‘Mmm. I like the sound of that. Your hand, my glove.’
‘That would be very dangerous.’
She chuckled softly. ‘I feel the need for a little danger, Natasha.’
And so we made trouble.
Of course, she went back to England. She didn’t want to, but she had no choice. Her visa was about to expire, she had work commitments at home. And there was Claire. She had said very little about her lover, but I understood how deeply ingrained was her subservience. The clues were there, both sexually and emotionally. Claire wasn’t physically violent, but emotional abuse can cause damage that is far more profound. Elinor had learned the lesson of submission so thoroughly it was entrenched in her soul. No matter how deep the love that had sprung up between us, in her heart she couldn’t escape the conviction that she belonged to Claire.
It didn’t stop us loving each other. We e-mailed daily, sometimes several times a day. We managed to speak on the phone every two or three weeks, sometimes for an hour at a time. A couple of months after she’d gone back, she called in distress. Claire had accepted a new job in London, and was insisting Elinor abandon her work in Manchester and move to the capital with her. I gently suggested this might be the opportunity for Elinor to free herself, not necessarily for me but for her own sake. But I knew even as I spoke it was pointless. Until Claire decided it was over, Elinor had no other option but to stay. I understood that; I had only managed to free myself when my husband had grown tired of me. I wanted to save her, but I didn’t know how.
Three months later, they’d moved. Elinor had found a job at one of the London teaching hospitals. She didn’t have the same degree of autonomy she’d enjoyed in Manchester, and she found it much less challenging. But at least she was able to use some of her expertise, and she liked the team she was working with.
I was actually reading one of her e-mails when my boss called me into his office. ‘You know I’m supposed to go to London next week? The conference on HIV and intravenous drug use?’
I nodded. Lucky bastard, I’d thought when the invitation came through. ‘I remember.’
‘My wife has been diagnosed with breast cancer,’ he said abruptly. ‘They’re operating on Monday. So you’ll have to go instead.’
It was an uncomfortable way to achieve my heart’s desire, but there was nothing I could do about my boss’s misfortune. A few days later, I was walking through customs and immigration and into Elinor’s arms. We went straight to my hotel and dived back into the dangerous waters. Hand in glove. Moths to a flame.
Four days of the conference. Three evenings supposedly socialising with colleagues, but in reality, time we could steal to be together. Except that on the last night, the plans went spectacularly awry. Instead of a discreet knock at my bedroom door, the phone rang. Elinor’s voice was unnaturally bright. ‘Hi, Natasha,’ she said. ‘I’m down in reception. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve brought Claire with me. She wanted to meet you.’
Panic choked me like a gloved hand. ‘I’ll be right down,’ I managed to say. I dressed hurriedly, fingers fumbling zip and buttons, mouth muttering Russian curses. What was Claire up to? Was this simply about control, or was there more to it? Had she sussed what was going on between Elinor and me? With dry mouth and damp palms, I rode the lift to the ground floor, trying to hold it together. Not for myself, but for Elinor’s sake.
They looked good together. Elinor’s sable hair, denim blue eyes and olive skin on one side of the table, a contrast to Claire’s blonde hair and surprising brown eyes. Where Elinor’s features were small and neat, Claire’s were strong and well-defined. She looked like someone you’d rather have on your side than against you. While Elinor looked nervous, her fingers picking at a cocktail coaster, Claire leaned back in her seat, a woman in command of her surroundings.
As I approached, feeling hopelessly provincial next to their urban chic, Claire was first to her feet. ‘You must be Natasha,’ she said, her smile lighting her eyes. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you.’ I extended a hand, but her hand was on my shoulder as she leaned in to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘I’ve been telling Elinor off for keeping you to herself. I do hope you don’t mind me butting in, but I so wanted to meet you.’
Control, then, I thought, daring to let myself feel relieved as I sat down at the table. At once, Claire stamped her authority on the conversation. How was I enjoying London? Was it as I expected? How were things in Russia? How was life changing for ordinary people?
By the time we hit the second drink, she was flirting with me. She wanted to prove she could own me the way she owned her lover. Elinor was consigned to the sidelines, and her acquiescence to this confirmed all I believed about their relationship. My heart ached for her, an uneasy mixture of love and pity making me feel faintly queasy. I don’t know how I managed to eat dinner with them. All I wanted was to steal Elinor away, to prove to her she had the power to take her life back and make of it what she wanted.
But of course, she left with Claire. And in the morning, I was on a plane back to St Petersburg, half-convinced that the only healthy thing for me to do was to end our relationship.
I didn’t. I couldn’t. In spite of everything I know about the tentacles of emotional abuse, I found it impossible to reject the notion that I might somehow be Elinor’s saviour. So I kept on writing, kept on telling her how much I loved her when she called, kept on seeing her face in my mind’s eye whenever I slept with other people.
More weeks trickled by, then out of the blue, an e-mail in a very different tone arrived.
Natasha, darling. Can you get to Brussels next weekend? I need to see you. I can arrange air tickets if you can arrange a visa. Please, if it’s humanly possible, come to Brussels. I love you. E.
I tried to get her to tell me what was going on, but she refused. All I could do was fix up a visa and collect the tickets from the travel agent. When Elinor opened the hotel room door, she looked a dozen years older than when I’d seen her in London. My first thought was that Claire had discovered our affair. But the truth was infinitely worse.
We’d barely hugged when Elinor was moving away from me. She curled up in the room’s only armchair and covered her face with her hands. ‘I’m so scared,’ she said.
I crouched down beside her and gently pulled her hands away from her face. ‘What’s wrong, Elinor?’
She flicked her tongue along dry lips. ‘You know I’m mostly working with HIV patients now?’
It wasn’t what I’d expected to hear, but somehow I already knew what was coming. ‘Yes, I know.’
A deep, shuddering breath. ‘A few weeks ago, I got a needle stick.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Natasha, I’m HIV positive.’
Intellectually, I knew this wasn’t a death sentence. So did Elinor. But in that instant, it felt like the end of the world. I couldn’t think of anything else that would assert her right to a future, so I cradled her in my arms and said, ‘Let’s make love.’
At first, she resisted. But we both knew too much about the transmission routes of the virus for the idea of putting me at risk to take deep root. Sure, it meant changes for how we made love, but that was a tiny price to pay for the affirmation that her life would go on.
We spent the weekend behind closed doors, loving each other, talking endlessly about what she’d have to do to maximise her chances of long-term health. At some point on Sunday, she confessed that Claire had refused to have sex since the diagnosis. That made me angrier than anything I’d previously known or suspected about the abuse of power between the two of them.
That parting was the worst. I wanted to take her home with me. I wanted our passion to be her cocoon against the virus. But realistically, even if she’d been able to leave C
laire, we both knew her best chance for access to the latest treatments would be to remain in the West.
Oddly, in spite of the cataclysmic nature of her news, nothing really changed between us. The old channels of communication remained intact, the intensity between us diminished not at all. The only difference was that now we also discussed drug treatments, dietary regimes and alternative therapies.
Then one Monday, silence. No e-mail. I wasn’t too worried. There had been days when Elinor hadn’t been able to write, but mostly those had been on the weekend when she’d not been able to escape Claire’s oppressive attention. Tuesday dragged past, then Wednesday. No reply to my e-mails, no phone call. Nothing. Finally, on the Thursday, I tried to call her at work.
Voice-mail. I left an innocuous message and hung up. Friday brought more silence. The weekend was a nightmare. I checked my e-mail neurotically, every hour, on the hour. I was afraid to go out in case she called, and by Sunday night my apartment felt like a prison cell. Monday, I spoke to her voice-mail again. Desperation had me in its grip. I even considered taking the chance of calling her at home. Instead, I hit on the idea of calling the department secretary.
‘I’ve been trying to contact Dr Stevenson,’ I said when I finally got through.
‘Dr Stevenson is away at present,’ the stiff English voice said.
‘When will she be back?’
‘I really can’t say.’
I’d been fighting fear for days, but now my defences were crumbling fast. ‘Look, I’m a personal friend of Elinor’s,’ I said. ‘From St Petersburg. I’m due to be in London this week and we were supposed to meet. But I’ve had no reply to my e-mails, and I really need to contact her about our arrangements. Can you help me?’
The voice softened. ‘I’m afraid Dr Stevenson’s very ill. She won’t be well enough to have a meeting this week.’
‘Is she in hospital?’ Somehow, I managed to keep hold of my English in the teeth of the terror that was ripping through me.