by Daisy Burton
“Jesus, I smell like a salad,” Sal muttered. She had never been one for potions and lotions.
They went downstairs and after about ten minutes, Sal was satisfied that she looked relatively human. She’d have to come up with a plausible story for Marsh about why she’d been to Jess’s because he was bound to be back by now.
Sal squeezed Jess gently. “Thank-you so much for all this, when you’re still not better yourself. I’m so grateful,” she gushed.
“Oh, don’t be silly. Go steady, please. I won’t say a word; you’ve kept enough secrets for me.” Jess promised. She watched as Sal smiled weakly, climbed into her car and drove off.
I wouldn’t want to be her, Jess thought as she closed the door.
*****
Marsh wasn’t home when Sal got there.
Where the hell is he?!
It was well past 8.00pm, so he’d been gone far longer than he’d said he would. The waves of pain resurfaced but she mustn’t cry again.
No, no, NO! She bit her tongue hard in an effort to stop the tears. She had to get a grip.
Putting the oven on ready to cook the pasta bake she’d prepared that morning, she wondered whether Maire knew that it was one of Marsh’s favourites. Could Maire cook? Had she cooked for him already?
Got to stop this, she chided, putting one hand up to her forehead.
After gathering up all the remaining wrapping bits that were strewn over the living room floor where she’d left them, she took them upstairs, put them away and ran a hot bubble bath.
Within a few minutes, the steaming hot water felt like it was seeping into her bones. She’d always found water soothing, whether it was sitting by the sea, languishing in a bath, or standing under a cascading shower and she took every opportunity to get wet. Now, a candle was lit and the bubbles were floating around her as she soaked. She needed this. The steam would help to account for her blotchy face too, if Marsh ever came home.
Half-an-hour later, blotchy, warm and much more relaxed, she dragged herself out to rescue the pasta bake. She was drying her legs when she heard the door unlock and slam. Marsh was home.
Bloody hell, at last. It had to be nearly 9.00pm.
She heard feet on the stairs and her stomach immediately tightened.
“Sal? You upstairs?”
“In the bath. Just getting dried. Dinner’s ready. Can you take the bake out of the oven for me? I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Sure. Sorry I’m late, I got waylaid,” he shouted as he hurried down the stairs two at a time.
Ordinarily, she would have got into her pyjamas and dressing gown after an evening bath. Tonight was different. She pulled on her tightest jeans and a beautifully decorated casual top that she rarely wore, but that she knew she looked and felt good in. She put on a touch of eyeliner to counteract the swollen lids, but nothing too obvious. Considering the horrors she’d been through that evening, she thought she looked pretty good.
It seemed she’d chosen her path.
Walking into the kitchen, she found a massive bouquet of flowers in a vase in the middle of the table, the places set with cutlery and wine glasses, and Marsh in the middle of dishing up the bake. He’d even thrown a small salad together. This was unusual.
“How was the gym?” she asked as breezily as she could.
“It was okay. You had a good evening?” he asked, running his hand through his hair.
“Yeah, I was expecting you back earlier though, is everything alright?” she stood next to him helping him with the plates. She looked into his eyes more intently than usual, but he didn’t hold her gaze for more than a second.
“Everything is fine, Sal. Honestly. I stopped to get some flowers because I’ve been a bit grumpy lately. They’re for you,” he said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the vase.
He had always known she loved flowers, but he rarely bought them for her. She could remember two occasions in the years they’d been together, one being when her mum died. Even if she hadn’t found out about Maire, she’d have been shocked and a little suspicious of this sudden gesture. She said nothing about that, though, simply smiled and kissed his cheek as a thank-you. It felt strange.
“Thanks, they’re beautiful. You must be feeling guilty! What’ve you done?” Sal tried to make a joke of it, but she feared her face gave her away.
“Nothing!” he said, eyebrows raised, jumping in a little too quickly. “Why would you think that? I’ll take them back if you like?” he teased, smiling. Then, when she didn’t laugh, he frowned. “You okay, Pumpkin?”
Ouch, ‘Pumpkin’. That hurts.
“I’m tired. Not feeling great,” she managed to squeak, biting her tongue again as she filled his plate. Marsh seemed satisfied with that, grabbed a bottle of wine out of the fridge, and they both sat down to eat.
The wine tasted good as it slipped into her stomach, but her innards steadfastly refused to accept any of the meal she’d lovingly prepared earlier in the day. Marsh would think it was odd if she didn’t eat anything because she loved her food, but she knew she’d bring it straight back up if she swallowed it. The wine was going down far too easily, though, and as she sat there refilling her glass, the world started to feel a little less hostile. And rather hazy. Pleasant.
Hazy wasn’t good, though. She knew she should keep her wits about her in case she missed something he said or did, or worse, let something slip herself. She couldn’t let him know what she knew. Not yet. It felt too scary to contemplate that conversation at the moment. She needed to have a bit of time to think and process everything, so she told Marsh she’d had a bad stomach earlier and couldn’t eat anything. He said he would wash up and put the leftovers in the fridge, and she gratefully accepted.
She was hoping there’d be something on TV so she could escape into it and forget everything. Given that An Audience with Cliff Richard was the most exciting option, she opted to read her Bridget Jones book on the sofa instead. It was impossible to concentrate, though, and while her eyes skimmed over the words, her brain wasn’t listening. Reading about Mark Darcy falling for Rebecca wouldn’t help much anyway. She kept getting flashes of Marsh in bed with a dark-haired Irish beauty with a perfect hourglass figure and it was becoming harder to deal with.
Sal expected Marsh to walk out from the kitchen and announce that he had some work to get on with. What would she do? Maybe he wouldn’t, with her there.
“Why don’t you have an early night, if you’re feeling rough?” he suggested when he appeared from the kitchen. Presumably he was trying to get her out of the way so he could talk online again.
“Nah, I’m comfy here,” she said, settling into the sofa. “It’s nice and cosy being down here with you. If you have to work, you can.” Finding herself proposing the one thing she didn’t want him to do, she decided to stop talking.
“I think I’ll sit with you and read. I’ve got today’s Guardian.” Marsh settled down in his armchair and opened the newspaper.
Sal would have loved that, normally, but inside she wept. He wouldn’t go on the PC with her there, but he was bound to go online if she went to bed. She felt a little tear escaping from the side of her eye, and she wiped it quickly away, hoping he didn’t notice. The fizzing in her stomach wasn’t going away either. Perhaps she should have tried to eat some pasta, but it was too risky earlier. She had a burning in her throat from acid reflux, but they didn’t have any of what Marsh called ‘jollop’ to soothe it. She decided to get a glass of cold milk from the kitchen, which might work just as well.
On the way back, glass and stripy paper straw in hand, she glanced over towards Marsh. Her stomach flipped as she caught a glimpse of his mobile lighting up on his lap behind the newspaper.
Oh shit. No. NO! She worried for a minute she’d shouted that out loud.
Sal hated texting but Marsh was quite at home with it. Of course! Why didn’t she think of that? It was obvious he wouldn’t only be using that messenger thing, or they wouldn’t have been able to easil
y communicate when he was in Ireland. Texting. She felt a wave of nausea and heat flash over her and the room started to spin, so she held onto the sofa for balance, spilling some milk on the back of it. Marsh shot up throwing the newspaper on the floor.
“For Christ’s sake, Sal,” he shouted. “Watch what you’re doing! I’ll get a cloth.” He stormed out, muttering to himself. She wasn’t surprised, he was always like that when anything got spilled or broken in the house. He hadn’t given a thought to why she’d spilled it, or that she’d been feeling poorly, but he’d been careful enough to take his mobile to the kitchen with him.
She grabbed the back of the sofa until her head stopped spinning. She shouldn’t have had that wine on an empty stomach. Once she got her bearings, she walked around it and curled up on it again. If he was going to yell at her for the spillage, she might as well be comfy. She closed her eyes and hoped that today had all been a dream. Maybe she’d fallen asleep when she was wrapping with Mel that afternoon? She pinched herself in case, but she remained in the miserable present.
Marsh strode in with a face like thunder, holding a damp cloth and some kitchen roll. He wiped the upholstery carefully, then blotted it.
“Look,” he barked. “Can’t you take a bit more care of my stuff? Fuck’s sake, Sal, you’re not a child. This is going to stink of sour milk, you know that don’t you. You stupid idiot.”
So much for the flowers. ‘My’ stuff? So, it’s not ‘our’ stuff anymore? Sal ignored his ranting, closed her eyes tightly and waited for everything to stop.
How could this have happened in so short a time? Wasn’t everything perfect a few weeks ago?
She felt as if she hadn’t changed at all in that time, but he was an exaggerated version of himself, in a negative way. He used to be fairly easy-going with her and had only snapped occasionally. Now, though, he was short-fused, finding fault with everything she did, and swearing at her. She could tell she was being unfavourably compared to a beautiful, exciting, single Irish woman who never spilled milk on his sofa. Sal had nothing in her arsenal that could compete with her.
Sal rarely felt angry. She’d always left that to Mel, who did it much more effectively. Sal had always been the one to soothe and calm her little sister. Certainly, Sal could be fiercely protective of other people, but that indignant, self-preserving anger, when someone had wronged her just didn’t happen.
Mel’s temper had come from their mum, and if Sal hadn’t been calm, their whole house would have become a chaotic warzone. Sal’s role ever since Mel was tiny had been that of peacekeeper between her mum and sister. Even as a child, Mel had known exactly which buttons to press to wind each person up the most - their Achilles heel. It had been handy sometimes, but in the main, Sal had spent her life calming other people down; she wasn’t used to having to do it for herself.
Now, she felt weary more than angry. Exhausted from the day, she wanted to go to bed more than anything. Now she realised he was texting, it was pointless to stand guard over the computer. If she could manage the stairs with her dizziness, she’d be better off up there; at least she wouldn’t rile him any further. She felt so rotten, any fight she might have had in her was gone. Bed seemed appealing; a duvet to cover her and shelter her from the outside world was a good option. She got up, stumbled towards the stairs, grabbed the handrail and hauled herself up the stairs.
Marsh ignored her and continued reading. She was beaten.
7
The next morning, Sal woke feeling disorientated and panicky. She’d slept like a log, but an unidentified noise had awoken her, and it took her a few moments to realise why she felt unwell. She knew she’d been dreaming about something that had left her with a feeling of dread, although she couldn’t remember exactly what. Looking across at the alarm clock she saw it was 8.23am, and also that Marsh wasn’t in bed next to her. It didn’t look as if he’d been in it at all.
She could hear what sounded like drawers being opened and closed in the spare room, where Marsh kept many of his clothes. He had so many t-shirts that they wouldn’t all fit in his half of the storage in their room. She eased herself out of bed holding her pounding head, and padded out to the corridor in her nightie, wiping her sleepy eyes and blinking in the light. The touring suitcases were out, but there was no tour for at least a month.
“Marsh?” she asked quietly, looking into the spare room.
“Morning.” His face was emotionless.
“Have you slept?” Sal asked. “Only it doesn’t look like you’ve been in bed.”
“No, I… uh, I slept on the sofa in the end. Watched an old movie ‘til late and I didn’t want to disturb you as you were feeling ill, so I got a blanket and kipped down there.”
“Right. Thanks, but you could have come to bed. What’re you doing?” She asked, but she wasn’t convinced she wanted to know the answer.
He walked over and held her shoulders, looking her right in the eye. “Look, Sal, I need to get away. Not forever, but I need some space to get my head straight. I haven’t been feeling myself lately and I need to think about what I want.”
“What you want? What, you don’t want me?” Her face crumpled, but Marsh’s expression didn’t change.
“No, look, don’t cry,” Marsh was firm. “I’m only going for a while, I promise.”
“But… why?” she tried hard not to whine. Whining wouldn’t help her. “And how long is a while?”
“I don’t know how long I’m going for, but I’ve arranged to stay with Doug. It’s me, Sal, not you. I’m not feeling great and things haven’t been right between us for a while.”
Doug was a lighting tech for the band and he and Marsh had worked together on and off for at least 15 years. They’d been drinking buddies in the past and Doug was a lovely guy and a good friend to Marsh. Sal knew he’d been through a divorce, and was living in a large flat about two miles away.
It was both good and bad news for Sal that Marsh was going to stay there. Doug and Sal got on well, and she was sure that he wouldn’t look kindly on Marsh doing the dirty on her. But Doug was also a heavy drinker, especially since his split, and would encourage Marsh to join him. Although Marsh had calmed down the party-animal, hard drinking, womanising part of him since he’d been with Sal, he didn’t need much encouragement for it to pop up again. Or maybe it already had? Is that why all this was happening? She tried to get close enough to smell his breath.
“I’m not sure I understand,” she said. “Is it the spill last night? I said I’m sorry, I’ll clean it properly today so it won’t smell …”
Marsh smiled. Inappropriately, Sal thought. She couldn’t smell any trace of alcohol on his breath.
“No, it’s nothing you’ve done. I said it’s me and I meant it. I need to get my head straight.”
Sal couldn’t help but snap. “I can’t believe you’re giving me that line, Marsh. ‘It’s not you it’s me’? I thought you’d do better than that. Go then, it’s probably for the best.”
It was real. Maire had won and Sal was losing the love of her life. If he stayed more than a moment longer, she was likely to say something she’d regret.
He looked at her with kind eyes, but his mouth was straight and resolved. She knew that expression, and she also knew that nothing she could say or do would change his mind. Not now.
Sal’s head was whirling so hard, she could barely hold a thought.
Has he planned this? He must have, if he’s asked Doug if he can stay with him. How did I not see this coming? Oh wait. That must have been where he went yesterday…
Marsh picked up the suitcase together with his guitar case and walked downstairs. Without hesitating, or a backward glance, he closed the door behind him and he was gone.
*****
Sal sank into a pit of depression for a couple of days. No bathing, eating or sleeping, apart from when she became so exhausted, she slipped into a deep, dreamless slumber.
When Sal told Jess about Marsh leaving, Jess clearly fought the urge to remind
her friend again that she’d seen this coming. Instead, she had been unnervingly kind. The timing was good, as she was just able to drive again after her operation, and she took it upon herself to bring Sal over a cooked meal every day. Although Jess was, at best, an average cook, Sal was incredibly grateful that she was so concerned. She conceded that without Jess, she would have existed on tea, marmite on toast and salt and vinegar crisps, if she’d eaten anything.
“You’re slim enough already,” Jess told her, taking charge. “You need to eat to keep your strength up. Even if you do throw it up afterwards, some of it will be absorbed.”
Sal didn’t argue; she didn’t have the strength and she knew how stubborn Jess could be. And she had a point – Sal was only eight stone and a size 10, so she didn’t want to get any smaller. She had strong cheekbones, which Marsh had always loved but whenever she lost weight, he told her she looked gaunt and ill. This was no time to look anything but her best.
Jess had offered to stay over on the first night, so that Sal wasn’t alone, but Sal had assured her there was no need. It was hard enough not having Marsh around, but it would somehow make it much worse – much more real - having her best friend there instead. Sal knew that Jess and Adam were still trying to come to terms with the ectopic and all the surrounding issues from that, despite there being no evidence that they were able to talk to each other about it. They had plenty to cope with, without her adding to it.
Marsh had texted every day, to Sal’s surprise, but she’d followed her usual rule and said as little as possible. She managed the odd ‘hello’ and ‘goodnight’, while trying her best not to imagine what Marsh was saying – or doing – to Maire. Or what he’d said to Doug, for that matter. Sal still had to work with these people and it would be hard enough if Marsh left her, let alone her colleagues knowing every humiliating detail.
Sal managed to avoid Mel that first week, so her sister had no idea that Marsh had gone. She knew Mel was already upset with him, and she didn’t have the energy to cope with her sister’s militant attitude and temper. It would only make things worse if Mel contacted him in fury, or came to visit while spitting magma about him. Sal was hurt, but that was the last thing she needed.