Meet me at Wuthering Heights this weekend? We can talk on our moors.
I flinched anytime I heard or read his name, but regardless I stalked everyone in Heath’s cast and crew list for their social media feeds to catch a glimpse of him or some news of him, and occasionally I would. Self-inflicted wounds.
His production’s opening night was a great success and he dominated the reviews, along with several of the minor players that had stepped up. I saw the photos of him on stage and ran my finger over his face on my screen. He looked the same. How was that even possible when we were part of each other and not together? I don’t know why but Edgar Linton didn’t look quite as desirable now. Maybe the element of‘can’t have’made him more attractive before. That seemed so unfair.
I did my best not to mope around and ruin our London experience for Nelly, and luckily, we had visitors nearly every weekend so I didn’t have to keep up a front all the time, but I was exhausted from the pain. I tried not to pump Lockwood for information every time I connected with him or when he stayed the weekend. He saw Heath every day and I desperately wanted to know more.
Thank God I could keep busy. Edgar must have scored my phone number from his casting director, Tamara, and he messaged me to reschedule our dinner – he had to go away for a week to direct some on-location scenes and as he put it, press the flesh with a few financiers. I was being punished for wanting him when I already had it all, now I had nothing.
But by the start of the third week, I had turned a corner. I was cried out, rehearsals were getting serious, I had an agent interview, and I felt a little stronger. I was still broken, but not shattered. I felt like the pieces of me had been fitted back together and were glued into place – all the cracks were still visible and the slightest tremor could shatter me, but I was holding it together.
It’s going to be a brilliant day, I said to myself as I tied my hair back. We started shooting last week, that was exciting and most of my part was being filmed this week.
Today I’m going to be great on-screen; it’s going to be a great day.
I smiled at myself, then rolled my eyes. I looked thin and exhausted. Thank God I’m playing a crack whore … call it performance art that I’m getting into the part.
Whatever, get out there.
*****
Sometimes it was the weirdest things that triggered a memory. I was on the Tube heading to work at the studio—one day I’ll have a driver—when I looked down at my arm and saw a massive bruise; I ran into one of the props on set yesterday. It took me straight back to our childhood and suddenly I felt a wave of missing Heath. My brother, Hindley, was so cruel to Heath, always beating him.
On weekends and school holidays, first thing in the morning as soon as we had done the expected chores, Heath and I disappeared out of the house and ran to our moors. They were our playground with so much space. We lost ourselves in the trees, creeks and caves. It was a kid’s paradise. We had our favourite cave where we could see out across the moors and no one could see us. And we could see if anyone, especially Hindley and his friends, were coming.
We raced into our cave and Heath and I fell into each other as we sprawled on the floor; his breath hitched.
‘What’s up?’ I asked him.
‘Nothing,’ he said, and shrugged, pulling his T-shirt up higher on his neck, and then I saw it. A string of bruises.
‘Heath!’
‘It’s nothing,’ he cut me off.
‘It’s not nothing, Hindley did that, didn’t he? I’m telling Dad.’
Heath grabbed my hand. ‘No Cathy, that only makes it worse. I can handle him.’
‘Dad has to know, besides Hindley only does it when Dad’s away on the road. He thinks he’ll get away with it,’ I said, anger boiling in me. Heath couldn’t accept sympathy … I don’t know why, maybe he never got any from his mum or dad, if he ever knew them. We didn’t talk of it.
I reached out my hand to touch the bruising and he allowed me to lower his T-shirt a little and look. I gasped, the bruises were dark and yellow and ran across his shoulders.
‘I can handle it,’ he said and shrugged me off. ‘I won’t always be smaller than him,’ Heath said, and then he smiled. I’ll never forget that look. It was one of satisfaction, a promise.
Hindley died in a road accident when he got his first car. Heath never said a word about it … not even a word of condolence. He probably wished he had a chance to finish him off himself. I blinked away tears and came back to the now, hiding my face from other train passengers. I scurried through my handbag, found my phone, stuck my earphones in and hit play on my music list. I glanced up at the Tube map – six more stops. Stop thinking.
The following week …
Nelly looked at me and I gave her a subtle smile. We walked together towards the lift in our professional dress wear and waited until it came to the fourth floor. I stood aside to allow two men out and then Nelly and I filed in. She pressed the ground floor button and the doors closed. And then we turned to each other.
‘We have an agent,’ she screamed, and we hugged and laughed, and sang the words over again to make them seem real.
We have an agent … we have an agent … we have an agent!
Then the lift doors opened and we straightened up and walk out into the street crowd as though we were sensible, professional people.
Nelly took my hand and we hurried ahead to have champagne at our favourite pub to celebrate. It was nearing four p.m. and our work for the day was done!