Confessing to Mrs. Dalloway Through a Bathroom Door

The second floor is empty. The belly of the house thrums with guests, but on the second floor, the air is solid, untouched. Every door is locked. You walk towards the bathroom to the rhythm of a DJ no one remembers hiring. Kneel at the door. The sink is running. On the other side, you can hear the prayer of her breath.

She says, “I ordered some flowers today. I hate online shopping, but that Mrs. Johnson’s place was closed.”

“I never got any flowers.”

“I didn’t say they were for you. They’ll be delivered in three days.”

“Sounds frightening. Where will they be delivered?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Or you don’t want to tell me?” You ask this instead of, Is there someone else? though perhaps this is because you are the someone else.

“There’s music downstairs,” she continues. Perhaps it’s a good thing she can’t hear your desires the way you once thought she could. “God, it sounds awful. Richard should have hired a band.”

“I thought you organized this party.”

She doesn’t answer. You say, “Do you still play the piano?”

“No.”

A laugh. You say, “Richard is asking about you.”

“Did he send you up here?”

“He doesn’t know I’m here. I just overheard him talking.”

“Sounds about right. He’s always talking.”

“I mean, I didn’t get invited.”

“Neither did half the people downstairs. They’re Richard’s friends, I think.”

“I didn’t realize your husband had so many friends.”

“I didn’t realize you had so few.”

“I have you.”

The water stops. Downstairs, someone is laughing. You can’t hear Richard, but you’re sure he’s by the window, nursing a drink. You lick your lips. You haven’t had a drink in hours, not since wading through the London traffic, through swarms of well-dressed people you’ve never met. There is no buffet. There has never been a buffet in this house. Instead, there are ‘horderves’ and ‘appetizers.’ There are black slates piled with goat cheese and pesto swirls. There are punch bowls and real champagne glasses and bubbly prosecco which you’ve always thought tasted like nail polish. You think about these things as she rests against the door. You can almost touch her through it. She’s on her knees, you imagine. She’s on her knees looking up because she imagines you are standing, you are above and kneeling suits her, it looks good on her—

“Are you still travelling?” she asks. You shrug even though she can’t see you.

“I’m staying in the city for a few weeks.”

“Then what?”

“I’m not sure. Chile, perhaps? I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“Too hot. I hate hot places.”

“You’ve never been further than Victoria Street.”

“We walked that street. Do you remember? When Richard was out of town.”

“He’s waiting for you. He’s downstairs right now. I can get him.” Of course you remember walking Victoria Street.

She says, “That’s alright. Don’t bother. He’s leaving tomorrow anyway. He’s going to New York for business. He leaves me a lot.”

“Do you leave him?”

“Sometimes. Only for a moment.”

She talks like a child trying to remember some dream she had. You want to shout at her. You also want to unlock her mouth and climb inside her. The door rattles. Perhaps she’s banging her head against it like she did that night you threatened to tell Richard everything. The night you left for Thailand.

You stayed over that night. The first night in her guest house, the second in her bed, the third lying on her carpet being told how beautiful you were. She only tells you you’re beautiful when you’re lying beneath her.

The music shifts. A slow song. People are too drunk to protest. Someone drops a glass. Cheering. It sounds like a football match. They must have rolled Richard into a ball and begun kicking him about. You think of telling her this, but all that comes out is, “It’s a great party.”

“I can’t wait till it’s over.”

“You could send everyone home now.”

“It’s too early.” Then, “There’s a war going on somewhere else. People keep talking about it. I want them to shut up.”

You don’t know what to say to this, so you tell her the bathroom floor must be cold and she should come out of there. She whines. “I’m hot.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I should be, shouldn’t I? It’s a party.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Your voice is younger than your body. Do you know that?” she asks.

You bite your lip. You don’t feel young. Your knees will crack when you finally stand and your head will split from all this noise once you get back to the hotel. You say, “You sound older. Perhaps you should open the door. I feel like I’m talking to a ghost.”

You can tell she’s smiling. You remember her smile; she smiles like a burning building. Like the Great Fire of London. You learnt about that in school. You made a model with old cereal boxes and Styrofoam cups. Your dad set it alight with a cigarette (accidentally) and helped you take photos to present to the class. Your father is dead now (on purpose) and you keep his ashes in a shoebox. You say, “Someone died on my way here.”

“Who was it?”

“No one I knew.”

“Oh good.”

“I should tell your Richard you’re hiding up here.”

“You’ve never met Richard. Not properly.”

There is shuffling. She must be on her knees. You climb to your feet, press your lips to the door. You tell her, “He’s very drunk. I can hear him.” Now you can’t hear anything but her breath against the door.

“He’s leaving for the airport after the party. He doesn’t like to sleep here before flying. Thinks it’s bad luck.”

“Did you pack for him?”

“I always pack for him,” she says. “Makes me feel like I’m doing something good.”

Your chest itches for a cigarette. You know she’s feeling the same urge.

“Don’t do it,” you say. You hear the snap of a lighter—like a mountaineer slipping. “It makes you taste like Pompeii.”

“Good. I want to taste valuable.” 

“You taste forbidden.”

“Is that a good thing?” 

“Not all forbidden things are good things.”

You rattle the handle; the door remains locked.

“I’m not sure what this conversation is,” she admits. “Or where it’s going.”

“I’m not sure how it started.” You’re not sure why you’re here. You missed your plane for this. You missed two taxis and a flight to Rio de Janeiro. Someone else will be in your seat or stretched across two. Someone else will be nose-deep in an in-flight movie they don’t really like while eating food which tastes of nothing and yet far too much. The hotel you’re staying in will wake you early tomorrow. They will ask you to pack your bags. They will ask for you to return the room key and they will tell you no, you cannot extend your stay, we are fully booked, as if this is something you should have already known. From beyond the door, she whispers. “We redecorated. Richard paid for it. I supervised.”

“What does it look like?”

“It’s all white. White makes a room look bigger.”

“A big hospital ward. Why did you pick white?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want curtains or frosted glass— Richard hates frosted glass—but people can see me in the bath. They can see me naked, washing myself. They can see the handrail. Don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry.” You clench your teeth. “I wasn’t laughing.”

“It’s for Richard, not me. He has dizzy spells. But I used it this morning. God, it was horrible. I used the handrail like an old woman.” She sounds like she might cry. Part of you hopes she’s drunk. Part of you hopes she’ll pass out and you can slip away, unnoticed and forgotten. Another part of you wants to break down the door and sit smoking together in her brand-new bath. You bet it’s a large bath. One of those oyster-shaped tubs when you can spread your arms like it’s the crucifixion and die covered in foam. Swallowing bubbles the shape of baby teeth.

“I should have invited you,” she says from beyond the door.

“You don’t know my address.”

“I went paperless. E-vites. Emails. Texts. WhatsApp. That sort of thing.” She’s lying, but you thank her, apologize, and say you wish you didn’t travel so much when in fact all you want to do is travel until you’re too old to stand or shit unsupervised.

“I could have found you. I would have found you.”

“Sounds like a threat.” She says,

“It is.” Then, “I want to open the door.”

“You’re assuming I’ll come in if you do.”

“You will.”

“I might not.”

Of course you will. You say, “I have to get back. I need to pack. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

“I could pack for you,” she whispers. “I could pack for you like I do for Richard. It makes me feel better about telling you to leave.” You tell her she’s a coward. And when she opens the door, you wonder if you knew that word would make her open the door and you only uttered it for the express purpose of seeing her again. You wonder if you’re an addict, but then again, it’s not as if she can kill you.

You step back. She is standing, not kneeling like you thought. She doesn’t sway; her cheeks are orchid-white, not flushed or pink. She is sober, unlike the guests who are trickling out into taxis, a river of feet searching for shoes and socks, bags and coats. She wears no makeup; her forehead is a roadmap you can’t follow. She wears a polo shirt which belongs to her husband and light-blue jeans pattered with playing card symbols: clubs, hearts, spades, diamonds. Chalky hair tied sharp in a bun. She says, “Come in.” You step inside and tell her she’s a good liar.

“I’ve missed that about you.”

Her fingers rifle through your scalp, the same fingers which packed Richard’s underwear and mouthwash hours before this party started. Downstairs, someone is shouting at the DJ. Someone else is telling a bad joke and everyone laughs. And then she shuts the door and all you can hear is your own heartbeat.

“Your hair is disgusting,” she says. “When was the last time you showered?” 

You showered this morning but say nothing. She grabs both arms and you kneel by the bathtub. From down here, she is beautiful. From down here, you are in love. You will come back to this moment when you’re in another country with another woman and you will book a plane ticket home and take a taxi back here to this house and interrupt another fancy party and kneel in this same bathroom only to realize that another year has gone by and she has not left her husband and you are once again alone in the same city you were born in. 

“Sit still.” She cups your face like a mother. Your mother is also dead. Her ashes are in a storage locker in Birmingham. She’s happier there. You’re sure of this. 

“You travel too much,” she says. “It’s like you’re trying to escape something.” 

She was waiting for this, you realize. She was waiting for you. She didn’t need to invite you to this party because she knew you’d come. 

There is a shower head in the bath. It’s greaseless, horribly silver. She picks it up. 

“You’ll stay here tonight, won’t you?” She bends you over the porcelain and turns the water on. Lets it run till steam rises. 

“You like lavender, don’t you?” she asks. You open your mouth but no sound comes out. It’s so warm in here and you’re too tired to talk. She lathers shampoo into your skull, conditioner into your split ends. She says your hair is too thin. The water stings, but she’s so gentle and besides, she’s pressed against your back. Even if you could move, she might fall. Besides, what else could this be except love—the sensation of scalding water running down your neck. 

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About the Author

Yvette Naden was born in Mayenne France, in 2002, but moved to the UK in 2006 where she discovered she wanted to become a writer. She works as an English Tutor in York, and when she's not writing, she walks the Yorkshire Three Peaks and tries to bake.