Delivery

The doorbell rang. Isobel looked at the clock - it was seven o'clock
in the morning. Kicking Mark hard she moved as if in a restless sleep.
The doorbell rang again. Mark moved. She could hear rustling and then
the awkward sound of him levering himself out of bed. The floors were
polished wood and unforgiving, every movement echoed around the house.
She charted his progress to the front door, heard him mumbling to
whoever was there, door closing and then footsteps to the kitchen.
Hopefully to make tea. No water sounds, no sounds at all in fact.
Opening her eyes she stretched across the bed. It was Saturday; there
was no need to be awake. He would come back to bed soon, traditional
Saturday morning sex and then a deliberately long breakfast. There was
still no sound from downstairs. Mark had come back into the house, she
had heard him. He was down there somewhere, being uncharacteristically
silent.

She closed her eyes as if to sleep but found herself distracted by
Mark's absence. She needed the loo. In the bathroom she made more noise
than usual so that Mark would know she was awake. Lying back in bed she
heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Slow footsteps, with occasional
pauses. He climbed the stairs and entered the bedroom wordlessly. He
was carrying something. Something large and square and wrapped in brown
paper. The perfect parcel. It had no distinguishing marks and was not
held together by either string or ribbon. He laid it on the bed then
opened the curtains and a window. The light was weak and grey - early
morning on a sunless day.

Mark stood, in his pyjamas, looking out of the window with his hands
behind his back. He still had not spoken. Isobel sat up on her knees
looking at Mark.
'What is it?'
He turned around and came and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at
the brown parcel.
'Who's it from?'
Mark cleared his throat.
'I don't know. I thought you might.'
'Well doesn't it say?'
Doesn't it say what?'
'On the back or something. Who it's from.'
'No'.
'Have you looked?' He was behaving oddly. She had suspected it when he
had not come running straight upstairs to tell her who was at the
door.
'There's nothing written on it.'
'Of course there is.'
She leant forward to pick up the parcel but Mark held her hand back.
He was still looking at the package.
'Don't.'
'I want to see who it's from.'
'Don't touch it.'
'For god's sake relax will you.'
She tried to nudge the parcel with the other hand; he pushed her back
on to the bed. She looked to see if he was joking. He was standing up
now and looking at her. Smiling at him she moved her foot out to try
and kick the parcel nearer to her. Mark saw her foot reach for the
parcel, leant down, snatched it up and walking over to the other side
of the room laid it on the dressing table.
'I told you not to touch it.'

If he had been smiling she might have thought that this was a game, a
new twist on foreplay, or a bizarre attempt at a romantic gesture. He
was not, however, laughing and she thought it time to put a stop to it.
Pushing herself up off the bed she walked slowly towards him, carefully
allowing the flimsy strap from her silk night dress to slip down her
shoulder.
'Come on now, it's a present isn't it? You don't have to be dramatic
about it - acting's not your thing - you're more the straightforward
type. So be straightforward, give me the present and let's go back to
bed.'
She had her arms around his neck and was kissing his throat.
'I said I thought you'd know who sent it.'
His voice was muffled by her hair.
She kissed him on the mouth and he kissed her back. He waited until she
lifted her mouth off his&;#8230;
'Well- who do you think it's from?'
He wasn't giving in. He was stubborn too, a random stubbornness that
she found hard to wear down.

It was time for a different approach.
'Ok I've had enough. You win. I'm getting dressed.'
Moving towards the dressing table she pulled open the second set of
curtains. It was still grey out, a hard light. Mark looked old. She
moved to the dresser, opened a drawer and then quickly picked up the
brown parcel and ran to the bathroom. Before she could turn the key
Mark had his knee up wedging the door open. She could hear him
breathing. Leaning all her weight against the door she dropped the
parcel onto the floor and kicked it to the back of the bathroom. She
didn't want him to have it. He was being ridiculous, childish, and she
wouldn't let him win.
'Isobel open the door.'
'No, not until you move away.'
'I'm not moving until you give me the parcel.'
'Why are you so desperate for the bloody parcel?'
He laughed. 'I'm not barricading myself into the bathroom.'

It was the laugh. The dry, supercilious laugh, the one he used at
dinner parties when she had said something stupid. Taking the key out
of the lock she opened the door. He moved back slightly. Turning, she
shut the door behind her, turned the key in the lock, took it out and
held it tightly in her fist. He had stopped laughing but it was too
late. She couldn't stand that laugh. She ran at him, pushing him hard
in the chest until he fell back onto the bed. Before he had a chance to
speak she had opened a window and thrown the key out of it. He stayed
very still, looking at her with an expression that she couldn't read. A
startling laugh started to rise up in her; it was in her throat and out
of her mouth before she could stop it. As she laughed Mark's face
weakened. He lay on the bed with his eyes closed as she stood there
laughing at him. The laugh ran dry and they stayed looking at each
other. Lying there in his checked pyjamas, his face pale in the morning
light he looked so familiar suddenly that she wanted to lie down beside
him.

She sat on the edge of the bed. A weak breath of air moved her hair
against her cheek. She had just locked the bathroom door and thrown the
key out of the window. Mark's lack of response was unnerving.
'Well let's hope it's not a bomb.'
It was an attempted joke. Mark just cleared his throat.
'Mark say something&;#8230;please.'
There was a long pause before he spoke.
'You know it didn't even have an address on it.'
What didn't?'
'The parcel - we don't even know if it was for us.'
Isobel paused to think about this for a moment. It provided no answers
to Mark's behaviour. She still wasn't sure who'd won.
'Well why did the postman bring it here and why did you stay downstairs
for such a long time without calling me and why wouldn't you let me
touch it?'
It came out in a rush. There was a touch of whininess to her
voice.
'Is that what this is about? Me leaving you out&;#8230;. I don't
think it was the postman by the way.'
'Who was it then if it wasn't the postman? Of course it was the
postman.'
'No, I don't think it was.'
'Well why did you take the parcel from him.'
'I thought it was for you.'

She looked at him carefully - there was no sign of a smile, of a hint
that this was, after all, a joke.
'So you answered the door at seven o'clock in the morning to a man who
wasn't the postman and let him give you a parcel with no address on
it.'
'I said I thought it was for you.'
He was starting to sound less sure of himself.
'So you keep saying. Why would it be for me?'
Mark stood up and walked towards the bathroom door, his hair was
sticking up at the back where he had been lying on the bed. He tried
the door.
'It's in there.'
'Mark why were you so sure it was for me?'
He looked at his feet.
'Because I knew it wasn't for me.'
'But you said yourself it had no address on it.'
'I don't get sent parcels like that.'
'Parcels like what? You don't know what's in it or who it's for -
parcels like what exactly?'
She was starting to shout now and Mark was still looking at his
feet.
'Well&;#8230;. it looks like a present.'
'Oh and no one ever gives you presents - is that it?'
He looked up.
'No- of course not. That's not it.'
Isobel was starting to sound like his mother, which usually meant that
he was losing an argument. He tried the bathroom door again - this time
noisily rattling the handle and making exaggerated pushing
movements.
'It's still in there.'
'What is?'
Isobel had sunk back onto the bed.
'The bloody parcel. It's in the bathroom.'
He was shouting now - which he knew she hated. She pulled the duvet up
over her chest and said nothing. He stopped shouting and started
throwing himself against the door. His shoulder made a quiet thudding
sound and he made little grunting noises as he hit the door.
'You'll break it.'
She propped herself up against the headboard so she could see him more
clearly.
'You'll hurt your shoulder.'
He wasn't listening; she was only irritating herself.

The thudding became more urgent as the door started to bang against the
doorframe. Mark was breathing hard. Isobel watched his face grow redder
as sweat started to trickle down the back of his neck. He kept going.
The door was slamming against the frame.
'Mark.'
She had to shout.
'Mark!'
There was a split in the wood. She sat up. The door groaned beneath the
rhythmic slamming. Isobel started to feel sick. She pushed the duvet
away and stood up. The wood split with a reluctant scream and the door
smashed open leaving Mark hanging in the open doorway. He leant against
the wall, his hand leaving a sweaty print. Isobel walked over and stood
beside him.
'Mark?'
She didn't want him to answer. They both stood looking into the
bathroom. Sitting between the bath and the loo was a large, square,
brown paper parcel. No string or ribbons and no address. Neither of
them moved towards it. Mark felt for her hand.
'So you don't think it was for you then?'
She turned to look at him, sweaty, red and with a thin line of blood
running down his arm. He started to laugh; a loud, hard laugh that made
him sink to the floor and let go of her hand. She leant down and traced
the blood on his arm with her finger. Looking at him she licked the
blood off.
'That's disgusting.'
He stopped laughing and stood up.
'You always do that. It's disgusting.'
'You're a mess.'

Kissing his forehead she moved through the doorway picking up splinters
and putting them in the bin. Mark looked at himself in the mirror.
Isobel stopped in front of the parcel for a moment&;#8230;
'Lets go back to bed.'
What, like this?'
She turned on the shower and threw him a towel. Taking off her night
dress she walked, naked, back into the bedroom. She knew he was looking
at her.

Drying himself patchily Mark dropped the towel on the floor and climbed
into bed next to Isobel. She moved closer to him and rested her head on
his shoulder. The curtains were still open and the day was no brighter;
still the same cold, grey light. Lying on his shoulder Isobel could see
straight into the bathroom. Fitting neatly between the bath and the loo
the parcel lay untouched, the smooth brown paper unmarked by the shower
and Mark's splashy washing. They lay there together looking into the
bathroom, watching the package.