by Sue Watson
Within a few minutes, I’d reduced the sauce, carved the lamb and steamed the vegetables (Simon liked his al dente). I laid the plate of food before him and stood back waiting for his reaction. Surely this would wow him, and he’d forgive me for ‘playing’ with my sewing kit all day? But I could see by his flexing jaw that the very sight of me sewing a handbag when I should have been tending to the house had angered him. He chewed on meltingly tender lamb, a bright, luscious jus, fragrant with garlic and thyme, soaked up by the crispy golden roasts now dancing on his tongue. I waited… and I waited, standing near him like I was on bloody MasterChef and holding my breath for the judges’ verdict.
Eventually, he put down his knife and fork, the plate almost empty and, reaching for his phone, looked up at me. I felt like a waitress as I collected his plate.
‘Did you enjoy that?’ I almost wanted to add ‘sir’.
‘It was okay.’ He pushed his seat back. ‘The lamb was overcooked.’ He didn’t even look at me, just stood up and walked away. ‘And sort the boys out, they’re running round the front garden like savages,’ were his parting words as he left the room.
I’ve been so good at creating this idea of our ‘perfect family’ with him that no one would believe me if I said my marriage was less than perfect. I happily gave up my career to be a mother and sometimes I wonder what my life might have been had I pursued both a career and a family, but Simon said there was no such thing as ‘having it all’ and this was right for us. But who is ‘us’? Am I even part of us – recently I’ve felt like nothing, just an extension of Simon’s needs and wishes, while he waits for the opportunity to get rid of me and put a ring on Caroline’s finger. I’ve been waiting, knowing I was never good enough, knowing he will leave me one day like my mother, like Emily.
Emily would be nearly ten years old now, and I think about her almost all the time. She had Simon’s blue eyes like the other children, who have all inherited his left-handedness too. It was too soon to know if Emily would have been left-handed, but I often wonder what she’d be like. But I’ll never know because she died… and it was all my fault.
Chapter Thirteen
It should have been the best time of my life, but it was the worst. I had a perfect, longed-for new baby but was deeply depressed, unable to cope with anything. Simon was working long hours and he’d come home and reluctantly take over. Some nights he was tired and resentful and he’d get frustrated and angry with me. On these nights, I was glad Sophie was with Joy. It may not have been fun for her, but at least she wasn’t lying in bed listening to her father and I rowing, while Emily screamed in the background. Then one night he just didn’t come home.
It was after eleven when I really started to worry; if Simon went out for a drink he was usually home by then because he had to be up in the morning for work. I’d heard him talking quietly on his phone late at night and I’d smelled perfume on him, so on top of sleepless nights and depression I was feeling paranoid that he might be seeing someone else. I’d called his mobile and left several tearful messages, but now I was worried he’d had an accident. He didn’t drive drunk, but he might take a chance in his fancy new car after a few pints and I just kept looking at my baby’s face and wondering if she still had a father.
Over the next few hours I became more distraught. I called his friends, the various pubs he might have been to and then the police station. When there was no luck, I put Emily in her pushchair, wrapped myself in Simon’s overcoat and set off into the night to look for him. It was stormy, the wind was freezing and the rain spattered like ice on my face, running down my chin into the opening of the coat, soaking me through. I was walking and crying and it was way after midnight when a young couple stopped me to ask if I was okay. I told them I was fine and to leave me alone. I was quite rude. I didn’t care what anyone thought – nor did I want anyone’s ‘help’. I just wanted Simon.
But after walking for hours, while calling him constantly, I headed home in the vain hope he might be there. I imagined him sitting on the sofa, exhausted from a day’s work, wondering where I was. He was all I had apart from Sophie and Emily – he was everything to me – and I trudged back to the flat like a homing pigeon. When I opened the door of our little flat and it was as dark and empty as when I’d left, I just broke down. I was desperate, crawling the walls with anxiety and fear. Was he with someone? Had he crashed the car? I didn’t know which was worse, for him to be lying in a ditch or in another woman’s bed.
Throughout most of this time, Emily screamed, her cries filling my head. I tried to soothe her, but found it so hard because I couldn’t think straight. By 4 a.m. Simon still wasn’t home and I could barely move for exhaustion and worry. I put my baby in her cot in our bedroom and lay on the bed, just willing him to walk through the door. I didn’t care where he’d been and I daren’t ask him, I just wanted him with me. He was the only one who loved me and the only one who could calm Emily.
Eventually I started to drift off into sleep, but it seemed the more I drifted, the louder Emily’s screams were. As I fell into an uneasy sleep, her cries provided the soundtrack to my nightmares of her drowning and me watching, unable to save her. So I got out of bed and picked her up, holding her against me, rocking her and, miraculously, she stopped crying, and I held her longer, comforted by her downy baby head against my cheek, her snuffly little breaths.
Once asleep I put her back in her cot, but of course the minute I climbed back onto my bed she would start again. This happened several times until we were both crying again, and I gathered her up from her cot for the final time, my face next to her little hot head, our tears ebbing as we consoled ourselves in each other. I think that night was when I finally loved her. I’d bonded at last in the middle of a storm, and carried her back to our big double bed and gently lay her down next to me. I was happy; this was unconditional love. I’d searched for it all my life and, here in my arms, this little one needed me and I her. It was probably seconds before I fell asleep, and I dreamed of soft pillows and babies with angel wings.
I awoke in the morning remembering that Simon wasn’t there but also remembering that my feelings for Emily had finally arrived. I glanced over to her cot, but she wasn’t there and she wasn’t crying, then I turned to see her lifeless body next to me. Her eyes were wide open. But she wasn’t awake.
Simon turned up about the same time as the ambulance. All he could say was ‘what have you done, Marianne?’
We both cried an awful lot. I never really stopped. It isn’t just the loss though that is incalculable – it’s the terrible, terrible guilt. And it’s also why I don’t blame Simon for the way he treats me and for never trusting me with our children. Why should he, when I can’t even trust myself?
* * *
Simon’s home late again tonight – he smells of expensive perfume and guilt. He also seems distracted; I’m not surprised, he’s probably just left her bed. While I’m supposed to believe he’s been working, she’s probably been riding him into sexual oblivion most of the evening. No doubt she looks great on top and dismounts with grace, like the pony club tart that she is.
His slap from the other night has developed into a purple bruise down the side of my face. I usually cover my bruises in concealer to protect him from his own crime and pretend it didn’t happen. But now I want him to see it, I want him to face what he is, what he’s become. I walk towards him, turning my face slightly so he doesn’t miss it. He looks up from his phone and doesn’t flinch. I’m so conflicted; my feelings are all over the place. I hate him but I still love him, still want him.
‘Have you been working late? I ask.
He nods absently, scrolling through his phone; I’m not even important enough to warrant a verbal response.
‘I wish you’d called. The dinner might be spoiled. I’ve been cooking all day.’
I know I’m pushing it, risking a tsunami of rage – but then again it could be a passionate kiss as he tries to reclaim me, to convince me everything’s fine.<
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He throws his phone down on the kitchen table with an exasperated sigh, like I’m a buzzing fly and need to be swatted. ‘I’ve just stepped through the door and already the whingeing, Marianne.’ He’s holding out his hands in despair, like I’m the one who’s at fault because he’s late home.
‘I’m not whingeing, all I said is I’ve been cooking. I’ve made something special.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry you’ve been here all day in our million-pound house cooking. How terrible your life is. I wonder, is there a support group you can join?’
I ignore his sarcasm and continue buttering bread for the children’s school lunches tomorrow. But my anger at the thought of him being with her makes me brave and I can’t help but say, ‘It’s just good if I know what you’re doing… if you were working late I mean.’ Our eyes meet. He’s surprised at my bravery.
‘As a matter of fact, I wasn’t working late. I went for a drink,’ he says, holding my stare.
‘Oh, you had a drink with people from work?’ I ask after a decent interval that implies polite small talk rather than interrogation. When he doesn’t answer, I look up, waiting for his answer. I hold my breath. I don’t want to know. And yet I do. I do want to know. Will it be elaborate lies involving people and places that don’t exist, or something closer to the truth? If it’s a good lie that means he wants to keep her a secret, but if he’s open, then he’s not scared of me finding out and he wants me to know.
I can tell by the way his eyes glitter that he’s about to hurt me.
‘Not people, a person,’ he says, defiantly. And without taking his cold eyes from mine, he adds, ‘Someone whose company I enjoy. Do you have a problem with me enjoying a drink with someone I admire after a long, hard day?’
My heart flinches, but I don’t outwardly react. I let it go and open a jar of peanut butter for the children’s sandwiches, glancing at him as he picks up a breadstick from the kitchen table and breaks it in two. I feel the break in my bones, aware he’s looking at me still, saying nothing yet challenging me to ask more questions. But I won’t. His confession would mean I have to take action and I can’t. I‘m not ready for that. Not yet.
I stand with my back to him, both of us far apart but covered by the same thick blanket of silence.
‘Have you ever considered your mother might have been psychotic?’ He says this calmly, picking up a bottle of wine, his head to one side like he’s contemplating a philosophical question to be debated. He plucked this from his kit of emotional weaponry – now sharpening the knife to jam into my back as I make sweet little triangle sandwiches for the boys.
‘I don’t like to think too much about my mother,’ I answer, spreading organic peanut butter briskly. I’m trying not to engage my emotions. I have to respond in a rational manner; I don’t want to light any fires. Thing is, I don’t feel rational. I feel crazy – his comment punched me hard in the stomach and I’m still reeling, but he mustn’t see this, so I continue with the conversation, trying to sound objective. ‘I think my mother was a manic depressive, but perhaps this was compounded by postnatal depression which presented in a way that was hard to diagnose.’
‘Presented? Hard to diagnose? Have we been on the internet again?’ He gives a mirthless laugh and pours himself a glass of red. ‘Marianne, she was a zombie for years, then she slashed her wrists in the bath. It was hardly the baby blues,’ he says, insulting my mother’s memory and trivialising postnatal depression in one sweeping sentence.
‘She wasn’t a zombie… she was ill. I just remember someone saying she seemed worse after she had me, and then she had the baby and that’s when she…’ I stop, unable to go on and too weak to argue.
‘Yes, and all I’m saying is she was probably psychotic… and you may be the same.’
Yes, okay I’m a psycho, if that’s what you want me to be, Simon.
I don’t answer him, and after a while he realises he won’t get any fight out of me tonight.
‘I’m going to bed,’ he says, picking up his wine glass, and without turning back he leaves the room.
I keep going like I’m programmed to do, and despite knowing everything is crumbling around me, I put hummus in a little pot for Sophie’s lunch. Then I take a large, sharp kitchen knife and slice carrots, imagining they are Caroline’s long fingers. Even when there are more than enough carrot sticks, I keep chopping, chopping, chopping.
Look at me, Simon, chopping your girlfriend’s fingers off like a psycho.
The conversation we just had was telling – it’s the first time ever that Simon hasn’t tried to hide where he’s been or who he was with. She must be very special. This isn’t an imagined one-night stand with a waitress, or a female figment of my fractured mind. No, Caroline is real. I know the pills can make me confused, but their dirty little secret is written in black and white, smeared across months of emails.
I hate her.
Apart from the fact I still love my husband, I don’t really have any choice. I must stay and fight to keep my family together. I’m not financially independent and having not worked since we married don’t even have an up-to-date CV, so couldn’t support me and the kids without him. Besides, he’d never allow me to leave and take the kids, even if I had the means – so I’m stuck, because I’ll never leave my children.
I can live with a man who doesn’t love me. I’m used to being unloved; I spent my childhood with people who didn’t want me. Yet I can’t help but wonder after almost ten years and four children, three of our own, if he really has nothing left for me. He loved me once and I can’t help but be reminded of that when I read what he says to her, but I worry that all I am now is what comes between him and Caroline’s happy ending. Will his next move be to have me locked up again, making the coast clear for her? She could step in and take over my role – which is why I have to appear to be calm and stable and not do or say anything rash. I don’t feel calm and stable.
Caroline is waiting in the wings and I have to do something. Because of her I am suddenly surplus to requirements. Simon has found my replacement.
I was here first. I want my life back. I want her gone.
Chapter Fourteen
The following day, Simon’s gone by the time I head downstairs. I’d slept in the spare room; I felt uneasy about lying next to him, like lying with a stranger. I couldn’t sleep and heard him leaving before 6 a.m. I lay alone in the double sofa bed meant for guests, knowing he was going to her, no doubt giving her an early morning wake-up call before their working day of performing miracles on mere mortals. I try not to think of them naked, wrapped in her sheets as I cover my bruise in Touche Éclat and yell at the boys to ‘hurry or you’ll be late.’
Toast pops up briskly from the toaster, making me jump, and I laugh a little too loudly. The air is filled with the fragrance of morning, burnt toast and strong, sweet coffee, but instead of providing comfort, it makes me want to puke. Perhaps I should take a pill now and not wait until later today? I’m on edge – my skin feels tingly, as though the nerves are on the outside, exposed to the elements.
I take a pill and before the tiredness kicks in I get the boys to school, enjoying the freedom of driving along, listening to the radio, and therefore unable to log on to a device and watch my husband’s affair. I tell myself if you look hard enough, you can always find a silver lining. And while Simon’s doing his mistress, I can do what I want to do too. So when I encounter Jen in the playground, I’m delighted to catch up and take our chat to a nearby coffee shop. I feel raw and I need to talk to someone.
‘Peter’s being a twat,’ is Jen’s opening gambit over low-fat muffins and skinny flat whites. She then goes on to regale me with a story about how tight he is with money and how he baulked at buying her a Chanel handbag for her birthday. I dream of having such a simple problem but nod and shake my head in all the right places, something I’m used to with Simon. But Jen seems to pick up on my mood and stops talking about herself – eventually. ‘I know, I know, first-world problems
,’ she sighs, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘You okay, sweetie? There’s me going on and on and I haven’t even asked you about your weekend.’
‘Oh, it was fine, nothing special…’ I want to tell her everything. I want to tell her about the emails, about Caroline’s sparkly teeth, her crumpled sheets, her fucking basket of champagne and strawberries. Stupidly I want to ask her if she thinks there’s a chance my husband might still love me. I need a friend. It used to be him, but not any more. He has Caroline now – and she has him.
‘You seem a bit down, sweetie. What’s that… oh, is it a bruise?’ Jen looks concerned.
I nod slowly, unsure of what to say, but tell her I banged my head opening a cabinet door.
‘Oh… I thought for a minute you and Simon had been having fisticuffs.’ She giggles, but she’s probing.
I smile and shake my head.
‘But something’s bothering you isn’t it, darling? I understand if you’d rather not… talk about it, but, hey, we’re friends, that’s what friends are for, to share worries… and…’ She leans forward and touches my hand. She’s looking at me with such concern I want to throw my arms around her and cry.
‘I think Simon’s having an affair,’ I hear myself say over the babble and crockery.
Jen looks at me, her mouth wide open, her spoon held mid-air over her cup, like she physically can’t move with shock. I almost want to laugh but realise this would be inappropriate given what I’ve just said.
‘Jen, are you okay?’ I say, as she sits, stopped dead in her chattering tracks.
‘Sorry, sweetie,’ she says, coming round. ‘But I can’t believe he’d… What makes you think he’s…?’
I shrug.
She abandons her spoon and touches my arm again. The diamonds sparkle on her fingers as she clutches at my jacket sleeve. ‘Do you know who it is… this… woman?’ She crosses her long legs and leans in even closer for the details.