My Husband the Stranger

by Rebecca Done

  Dave’s been a complete marvel ever since I told him about Alex’s accident, making me laugh when I didn’t think I could, forcing me to eat when I had no energy left (he’s set an apple on my keyboard this morning, and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve discovered a snack pack of nuts or raisins in my drawer, or a duo of doughnuts in my bag). He’s recently divorced – at the time it was messy but now he’s very much back on the dating scene and having the time of his life, quite frankly. My favourite part of my week is usually – weirdly enough – Monday morning, when he entertains me with tales of his single escapades from the weekend.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  I nod gently. ‘Thanks for doing my interview.’

  ‘Oh, it was no bother. Actually, it was quite fun. I’m sure they suspected I knew sweet FA about them, but they couldn’t be quite sure.’ He pats himself on the back. ‘Journo skills.’

  ‘Getting up to speed within five minutes is definitely a skill,’ I agree.

  ‘I didn’t get up to speed at all – bluffed my way through the whole thing.’ He sighs in satisfaction. ‘I think I’ve earned my pittance this morning.’

  ‘Didn’t Seb give you my notes?’

  ‘Oh yes, he did. With about three minutes to spare. Can’t keep these chief execs waiting, can we?’

  I smile. ‘Tell me you’ve got an exciting weekend planned.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Tame by my standards.’

  ‘Just the one date, then?’

  ‘Actually, this weekend’s a date-free zone. Pub tonight, cinema with my nieces tomorrow, footie Sunday. Perfect.’

  I smile and try not to envy Dave’s ordinary weekend, doing ordinary things. Then I feel Seb glaring at me and jump to attention. Working here is like constantly playing one of those wire-loop games, where if you lose concentration for one moment you live to regret it.

  ‘I’ve got to ring Brussels in exactly four minutes,’ I mumble, feeling a surge of panic as my computer finally fires up. What did the company say they want to focus on? Continuous improvement? Organic growth? ‘Where the hell are my notes?’ I mutter, flicking nervously through the file.

  Dave slips his headphones back on. ‘Remember, Molly. If in doubt – bluff.’

  I smile to myself as I start dialling Brussels. Dave’s a big reason I hang on here at all, and is thus partly responsible for the fact that Alex and I aren’t homeless and living in a box. Dave doesn’t do soppy, so I’ve never told him that, but sometimes I’ve felt as if he’s quite literally holding me back from the brink.

  The brink of what, I’m not quite sure.

  Dave’s meeting a friend for lunch, so I head alone to my favourite park, where I can sit and stare at the greenery and pretend to feel calm. The interview was actually quite interesting in the end, but at the same time it made me crave to be somewhere far away again with the Alex I used to know. Together, and anywhere but here.

  I had no time to make lunch this morning, so I buy the cheapest cheese sandwich I can find, savouring every mouthful as I try to breathe out my stress. I feel a familiar stab of jealousy as couples walk past me arm in arm on their lunch breaks, laughing and chatting about ordinary things, living a totally ordinary life. The same life I used to live.

  My phone rings then, and it’s Alex’s brother, Graeme.

  Graeme was there on the night of the accident just over three years ago. Later, at the hospital, he told us what happened. Alex was staying with him for the weekend in London, where Graeme was renting a swanky flat from an acquaintance. Getting up in the night for a glass of water, Alex became disorientated in the dark and fell down half a staircase, hitting his head on the cast-iron coffee table at the foot of it. Graeme was at his side within seconds. I’ll never forget the hysterical phone call I received from him that night just after it happened, Alex unconscious beside him, the ambulance on the way. I jumped in my car, red-lined it all the way down the motorway to the hospital, stared wordlessly at Graeme’s colourless face as the news dripped in, torturously slow, like drops of blood from a badly stemmed wound. Coma. Life-changing injuries. Brain damage.

  Since Alex’s accident, Graeme and I have become quite close – he’s been an absolute rock, possessing a can-do attitude I suspect is inextricably linked to the trauma of that night. (None of us blamed him, of course, but Graeme blamed himself. He’s told me as much – that because it happened while Alex was staying with him, he felt at fault somehow.) And now the Alex he had known for thirty years has been replaced by a stranger; all the memories and experiences they shared for ever altered, their colour and significance subtly changed. My seven years with Alex sometimes feels paltry in comparison.

  ‘Hey. So what’s the plan for later? I’m on a half-day.’

  Graeme still lives in London but tries to visit as often as he can. It’s ironic, really, that he was in Norfolk for so many years, while we were in London – and now we’ve switched. Sometimes he stays with us when he visits, sometimes he gets a hotel. Occasionally, when Alex is in the right frame of mind, we head to London for a weekend and stay with Graeme instead, depending on where he’s living at the time. But all that ever really does is make me wish I was living in the capital again.

  ‘I forgot you were coming,’ I confess to Graeme. A sudden change in plans is a bigger deal to me and Alex than it would be to most people, since Alex’s equilibrium now depends on structure and routine. If I happen to be late home from work, or Graeme turns up unannounced, it makes him really agitated. And then his mind always leaps to the worst-case scenario: he won’t be able to eat what he wants, do the activities he wants, get enough sleep. And then he’ll feel ill, will miss seeing the boys on Tuesday, be ditched by his friends, have no mates for the rest of time, etc., etc. He has lost the ability for middle-ground thinking since the accident. Everything’s always black and white – either the best thing ever, or the worst-case scenario.

  ‘Oh.’ Graeme sounds a little deflated. ‘Were you doing something else?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I say quickly, because the thought of Graeme coming for the weekend is quite a relief, actually, if we can get over the hump of Alex being thrown out of sync. Maybe I can use the time to catch up with Eve tomorrow, pop out for a coffee, perhaps even go for a run.

  Graeme laughs lightly. ‘You can have other plans, Molly. It’s not a crime, you know.’

  Unlikely: I start most weekends trying to convince Alex to come out and do something, to put his phone down, to eat something other than fast food (it’s easy and quick, and though he can’t taste it, gives him a satisfying salt-fat-sugar hit). But when Graeme comes up, we sometimes head out for dinner at the pub, or go for a walk, or do anything else that isn’t just sitting in front of the television. Though it takes some persuasion, Alex does still want to socialize, and it’s important for his recovery to keep doing all the things he did with his friends before (easier said than done, of course – he’s less confident than he used to be – but when we do manage to get out and about, more often than not Alex does benefit from catching up with people). Graeme being around generally rescues me from two days of listening to Alex informing me he’s bored as he flicks through the news channels, of fighting over the housework, of staring in despair at all the things that need doing to the house. God, Alex isn’t the only one who’s bored.

  ‘So, shall I come still?’ Graeme presses. ‘I can always get a hotel.’

  ‘No, don’t be silly. Stay with us. I’ll just text Alex to let him know.’

  ‘Great. See you later then.’

  ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘if you’re coming, I might nip into Eve’s after work.’ I normally like to get home to Alex as soon as possible – I’m acutely aware of him being home alone all day, bored out of his mind. But if Graeme’s there, it won’t matter tonight, and I want to make the most of the opportunity to socialize, worry-free.

  ‘Great. See you when I see you, then.’

  ‘Oh, Graeme? We had an argument this morning.’ />
  ‘You and Alex?’

  I sigh, nod to nobody. ‘I asked him to clean up, but …’

  ‘I’m not even going to ask, but don’t worry, I’ll sort it.’ I picture Graeme’s sympathetic smile down the line. ‘Leave everything to me. Go out tonight, enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, Graeme. You’re a lifesaver.’

  2

  Molly – present day

  Eve’s place, as always, is rammed to the rafters with kids. Eve’s only got two herself – an eleven-year-old daughter and nine-year-old son – but she always seems to be cooking tea for swarms of their friends. At Eve’s, it’s always open house, which is great, because that includes me too. She’s my closest friend in Norfolk – when we met, we just clicked. She’s known Graeme and Alex since primary school and has lived in this village her entire life, only moving out of her mum’s house to set up home three doors down with Tom. She’s the most fulfilled person I know, which is why I’m always able to rely on her for a balanced perspective. Plus, having known Alex for a long time before the accident, she has some sense of what I’m going through, the profound change he’s undergone.

  I find her in the large kitchen at the rear of her Victorian villa, one of my favourite places to be. The range cooker means it’s always warm, and there are two comfortable sofas looking out through floor-to-ceiling glass on to her perfect English garden. There are about eight kids crammed on to one of the sofas playing a video game in typically boisterous fashion. Eve is observing it all with a kind of glazed calm, cup of tea in hand, and the smell of a bubbling lasagne blooms from the oven. Her shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, her hair’s gone a bit frizzy and she’s got a kids-related glow of exertion across her cheeks, but she looks so happy.

  I exhale; already I am starting to relax. For the next couple of hours, at least, I know Eve will take care of everything. It feels good when people take care of me for a change.

  ‘How was work?’ Eve asks me, probably expecting me to say okay, given I’m smiling. But I’m smiling because I love being around the kids. Their happiness is infectious.

  I shake my head. ‘Awful. I got a second verbal warning.’

  Eve’s face drops. ‘For what?’

  ‘I was late. Me and Alex had a fight.’

  ‘About what?’ She comes and sits next to me, passes me a cup of tea and grabs my other hand.

  I sip gratefully, shut my eyes. If I could just stay here, drinking tea with Eve, listening to the clamour of children …

  ‘Moll?’

  I open my eyes again. ‘Spilt milk, would you believe it.’

  That’s the thing about the way Alex is these days – normal daily gripes that would usually go unnoticed (or, at the very most, be registered then forgiven), all too often turn into something they shouldn’t. Because we both spend our lives exhausted, battling the constant challenge of it all, some days living on a virtual knife-edge. Explosions over trivialities are inevitable from time to time.

  It came as a shock at first, his temper. I think we’d all convinced ourselves that he was angry in hospital and rehab because he was in hospital and rehab – that once we got home, everything would be okay. But of course it wasn’t. In fact, it ramped up as he adjusted to being home again, in familiar surroundings but feeling absolutely nothing like himself.

  ‘He left it out of the fridge, then couldn’t taste it had gone off, obviously, and then … oh God, never mind. I’m boring myself.’

  ‘You’re not boring me,’ Eve says reassuringly, squeezing my hand.

  ‘It wasn’t his fault,’ I sigh. ‘He was tired today, because he went out yesterday. You know what he’s like when he’s tired.’

  ‘Yep,’ Eve says, because she does: everything shuts down and Alex gets irritable, liable to make mistakes that frustrate him later. He does this – has days of burnout where he simply forgets to stop, which then has a knock-on effect for all the days that follow.

  Perhaps if Alex had been someone else when I met him – someone less affectionate and tactile, someone less utterly romantic – then I wouldn’t have felt the weight of his personality change as heavily as I do now. Before, he was into flowers and holding hands and chocolates and romantic meals; yet now he more closely resembles my ex, the first boy I met at university – detached, allergic to PDAs, prone to long periods of inattention and a bit of a temper; the man I clung on to for too long to my own detriment.

  It’s so hard to accept that my future now is destined to be a slightly repackaged version of my past. Eve would assure me that it’s not, but she never knew my ex – so she can’t fully understand that my new husband carries many of the same depressing personality hallmarks.

  She tries to understand – and perhaps she does, better than anyone – but she still doesn’t know how it truly feels to have Alex almost look through me some days, as if he’s wondering who I am and why I am there. The spark in his green eyes, the connection between us, is gone. That unspoken something has left the room, and I know it will never return.

  ‘So where’s Alex now? Why don’t you stay for supper? Ask him to come round too, if you like, there’s plenty. I made heaps.’

  I smile. ‘Alex and a room full of screaming children?’

  Eve laughs. ‘Sorry. Forgot.’

  ‘We’re not screaming, Molly!’ Isla informs me in a high-pitched hyperactive giggle as she shoots past us to retrieve the biscuit tin from the counter.

  ‘Er, I don’t think so,’ Eve says swiftly. ‘Dinner’s in ten minutes.’

  ‘Mum, I’m starving!’

  ‘That’s why dinner’s in ten minutes,’ Eve replies firmly.

  ‘Where’s Alex?’ Isla asks me as she skates on the soles of her tights back over to her friends, knowing better than to argue with Eve about biscuits before dinner.

  It breaks my heart, that note of nervousness in Isla’s voice that Alex might be about to show up and spoil her evening.

  Alex used to be great with kids, and Isla and George absolutely adored him. He just had that way with them, a gift for making them squeal with delight, for talking to them, entertaining them. They’d usually be hanging off his legs for the entire duration of our visits here. Eve has explained everything to them, that Alex will never be quite the same since his accident. She even bought them a picture book to help them understand, but they still don’t, not fully. Isla asked me only the other day, ‘Why doesn’t Alex like me any more?’ and I had no idea how to answer her. What I wanted to say was that, some days, that’s exactly how I feel too.

  ‘He’s at home with Graeme,’ I tell her with a reassuring smile.

  She beams back at me from the sofa, pleased. In much the same way as the man who now sometimes scares her, Isla is rarely able to hide how she feels. I swallow the lump in my throat.

  ‘She doesn’t mean –’ Eve begins softly as Isla turns her attention back to the video game.

  ‘I know,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s fine.’

  Probably sensing the need to change the subject, Eve exhales and says, ‘So exactly what does a second verbal warning mean anyway?’ She stands up and heads back over to the oven, setting a garlic baguette inside it to warm.

  ‘It means I’m on borrowed time.’ I shake my head. ‘I need that job, Eve. I can’t risk being out of work.’ It is the thought that terrifies me most. Alex is highly unlikely to find work in the foreseeable future, so if I lose my job – especially if I’m fired – our main source of income aside from Alex’s meagre benefits is gone, just like that.

  ‘You should really try looking for something else, Moll,’ Eve suggests gently.

  ‘With a disciplinary record and an appalling reference?’ I ask her with a sigh of frustration. ‘I’m trapped there now.’

  ‘You’d just need to find an understanding employer …’

  ‘Employers don’t want people with baggage, Eve. Would you?’

  ‘Anything’s got to be better than working for Seb, surely?’

  I shrug. ‘Awful as he
is, at least Seb knows my situation – that I have to leave at five on the dot every night, that my head’s usually elsewhere …’

  ‘Why don’t you think about freelancing again? At least then you’d be in control of your own hours.’

  ‘And alone at home with Alex every day.’ I shoot her a resigned grimace. Not an option – we’d both be climbing the walls.

  Eve falls silent and we lock eyes for a moment. We both know the conundrum of Molly and Alex is not one that can easily be solved.

  ‘Well, at least Graeme’s up for the weekend,’ Eve says brightly, reaching over for a stack of melamine kids’ plates from the cupboard. ‘You’ll get a bit of a break. Stay for supper, Moll. Maybe Alex will have calmed down by the time you get back.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be fine by now.’ And the frustrating reality is that he will: our fight will be long-forgotten when I get in tonight. Arguments are dismissed these days as quickly as they are started, which isn’t always easy to accept when you’ve been on the receiving end of his rage.

  The timer on the worktop goes off. Isla glances up hopefully from her video game.

  ‘But you’ll stay?’ Eve asks me.

  I glance down to check my phone, the lock screen still my favourite monochrome photograph from mine and Alex’s wedding day. The two of us running hand in hand away from the camera down a tree-lined path, laughing uncontrollably.

  There’s no further communication from Graeme, so I’m guessing everything’s okay.

  I smile and nod. ‘Yes, I will. Thanks, Eve.’

  Right on cue, we hear the front door slam – Eve’s husband, Tom, home from work. A few moments later he appears, drops his bag on the floor and ambles over to his wife for a hug. He looks almost as exhausted as I feel. Isla squeals and runs over to him for her own cuddle, George right behind her.