by Sue Watson
I start clapping during a murmur of shock and disapproval. Jen almost collapses; she’s playing it to the hilt and I love her for it. Meanwhile, Cookson’s jaw is on the floor and I reckon he’s realising what a big mistake he’s made in promoting immoral, cheating, empty-theatre-abusing Simon.
‘Regrets, Professor?’ I ask, and he snaps at his wife, who is trying to placate him, before grabbing her and storming out. ‘Just one more thing before you all go,’ I say to his retreating back. ‘I imagine Simon has informed you all about my “headaches”? But despite perhaps evidence to the contrary, I am not mentally ill. Not at all. Increasingly, I’m realising that my behaviour is and always has been a perfectly natural reaction to life with my violent, cruel, cheating husband. Thank you and good night.’
Caroline grabs her bag and makes for the door, quickly followed by Simon. There’s then a muffled discussion in the hallway, which everyone is pretending not to listen to. It’s followed by the slam of the front door and the guests from the hospital and their wives and husbands suddenly realise how late it is.
After a montage of ‘Is it really that late? Lovely evening,’ and ‘The babysitter has to leave by 9 p.m.,’ they head for the door. Everyone’s embarrassed, but no one as much as Simon, because this is his worst nightmare: a public humiliation, a shaming and, hopefully, a career crash. He can’t believe I know – he can’t understand how I’ve found out about the baby, which he apparently knew nothing of judging by the look on his face. His new position at the hospital is no doubt now in jeopardy, and he’s been made to look a fool in front of his work colleagues and all the yummy mummies he uses for a quick ego trip in the playground when he drops the kids off.
Nice job, Marianne.
‘What is wrong with you, Marianne?’ He’s now hissing in my face, having swept back into an almost empty kitchen after chasing the professor down the drive. ‘Why do you always have to do this?’
Jen is the only guest left and is staring at me, mouth agape. Simon’s shaking his head slowly, like I’m the problem, the burden in his life.
I gaze around the room. The poor catering girls are just like Jen with their mouths open wide.
‘Can you invoice me?’ I say with a smile. They nod and wordlessly throw the rest of their plates into a box and hurry out, as Jen pours herself another drink. She’s already very drunk.
‘Do you want me to stay – if nothing else as a referee?’ She flicks her head at Simon, addressing him too. Presumably, she’s hoping he’ll pick up her little joke and laugh, but Simon never laughs at little jokes. He strides towards the huge French windows and stares out onto our perfect lawn. ‘I can stay if you’d like me to?’ She’s nodding to me, while sneaking a mean glance at Simon.
He turns round quickly. ‘No, Jen, but thanks for being here for Marianne,’ he says, like I’m not here, like I’ve already been sectioned.
‘Oh… okay… I’ll call a taxi… shall I?’ Jen’s saying, almost expectantly. I know she’s looking out for me, and I am a little scared of being left alone with him, but surely now I’ve told everyone what Simon is he daren’t touch me. ‘I’ll wait outside then… for the taxi?’ she says, without stirring.
‘Please,’ he snaps back at her, and she jumps down from her stool. The air prickles around him; even his glass of champagne is fizzing like it’s been shaken as he stands glaring through the window.
Jen picks up her bag. ‘Erm, bye then, Simon…’ she says as she reaches the kitchen door. She doesn’t really know him, and yet she seems to need his approval, his permission to leave – he has this effect on everyone.
In response, he turns his head vaguely in her direction, but doesn’t look at her. ‘Bye Jen,’ he says, like it’s a command: Go, Jen.
‘I’ll call you… tomorrow,’ I say, hoping he’ll take the hint that I have someone on my side who’s waiting for my call. If he does anything to hurt me, Jen will know and she will come running. She has my back.
But she’s clearly upset and doesn’t look at me, just teeters from the room on her bedroom shoes. They don’t look sexy or funny any more – just silly and a bit sad. Without even a goodbye to me, her friend, I hear the door slam for a second time.
I look at my husband of over a decade and wonder what’s going to happen. He isn’t going to make this easy, despite the fact that he’s the one in the wrong – he will make me suffer for this.
But I want to lay it out for him. ‘If you want to leave, if you want to be with her and your baby then go, because there’s nothing left for us.’
‘And whose fault is that?’
I hesitate, but this is the time for truth. What’s happened these past few weeks has given me the strength to finally be honest and stand up to him.
‘We’re both to blame. You’ve spent our married life hurting me in so many ways, and I let you. Because of my guilt over Emily and my weakness, I allowed you to brainwash me into believing that there was something wrong with me as a wife, a mother, as a person.’
He’s silent, glaring at me now, and I’m scared, but I carry on.
‘You don’t take any responsibility for the pain you cause… and I always end up apologising,’ I hear myself say.
‘Responsibility?’ He turns quickly and rushes towards me. I put my arms up to my face in an instinctive act of self-defence. He can’t bear to be close to me, but now his face is in mine and his eyes are on fire. ‘You have the audacity to talk to me about responsibility?’ He enunciates each syllable, spittle on his lips, pure loathing in his eyes.
‘Don’t… just don’t,’ I cry. ‘You can’t keep bringing everything around to that. It happened. Don’t you think I feel it, the guilt, the pain? I wake up every morning and she’s the first thing I think of. She’s with me until I go to sleep at night. I dream of rolling back the clock, if only I could. I see her little face in my sleep, I see eyes wide open just like my mother’s were when I found her. I understand why you hate me – I hate myself – but you can’t go on hurting me for the rest of my life. I’ve welcomed your punishment, made myself vulnerable just so you can hurt me, because it’s what I deserve. But Simon, no one can torment me about this more than I torment myself. I’ve built my life around it, because I live with it and always will… just being alive is my penance.’
I am crying; my heart is bursting. The only conversations I’ve allowed myself are the blaming ones, where I apologise and Simon gets to torture me and use it like a cattle prod to keep me in line. I’m pleading with him now, to put down his weapons, to call a truce, but all he does is look at me, shake his head despairingly. And then he walks away. I’m amazed… it was that easy. I’ve done it – the war is finally over.
‘Simon, are you going to leave?’
‘No.’ He looks at me with incredulity. ‘I’m not leaving the house I’ve worked for and have no intention of leaving my children with you.’
My heart bounces to the floor. I should have known he’d want one last fight, one last chance to control me, but I’m not that weak, insipid shadow any more.
‘Then we’re at a stalemate,’ I sigh.
‘No, we’re not – tonight you put me firmly in the driving seat, Marianne. That stunt you pulled proved to everyone that you’re ill, unhinged, paranoid. I don’t have to leave this house or my family. But you will.’
I’m angry now and fighting for everything. I’m not scared of him any more. I’m just furious. ‘You can dress tonight up as my breakdown, but this time I’ve not been so stupid. This relationship isn’t a figment of my imagination – I’ve seen the emails, and the woman is pregnant.’
‘Marianne, there are no emails. There’s nothing going on with Caroline. She’s not pregnant – to my knowledge – and if she is it’s certainly not mine. I’m not having an affair with anyone. You need to let it go; you’re not well.’ He’s talking to me in his calm, clinical voice. I remember it from last time when he left me at the clinic; it chills me to the bone.
‘No, no… I saw the emails, Sim
on.’ I’m not mad, I’m not. This time I know it’s for real.
‘Will you calm down and take your medication?’
I storm into the living room and grab the iPad, type in the passcode, then try to log into his emails, but all I get is ‘this account does not exist, try again’. No… no… I saw them. This can’t be happening.
He pours two glasses of champagne and calmly hands me one. ‘Look, Marianne, we’ve been here before, so many times. You get yourself into a state and accuse me of all kinds, but this time it is serious. Caroline is a colleague, a junior colleague who looks up to me, and yes we have a friendship, a mutual respect. She admires me for my experience, my skill, and I admire her for being so young and bright. But that’s it… and what you did tonight…’
‘BUT YOU’VE BEEN SEEING EACH OTHER!’ I yell in his face. ‘I know… I’ve been reading all about it…’ I pick up the iPad and frantically try again, my hands shaking. I press the keypad with the combination I know so well, but… nothing. ‘They were here… I’ve been reading them for months.’ I fall into a chair with my head in my hands. Forget it. I don’t need some emails to prove I’m not ill… I look up and see him standing over me – is that a smirk on his lips or am I imagining it? Then it dawns on me, ‘Where are they, Simon?’ I ask, now as cold and calm as he is.
‘You’ve deleted the account, haven’t you?’ I say, looking into his face, but he doesn’t answer. He’s holding out his hand, and in his palm are two tablets, which I slowly take from his palm and wash down with champagne.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I lean against the kitchen worktop and cry. Have I imagined the emails after all – is there anything else that I have to prove I’m not going mad?
‘Look, you have to ask yourself why you make these things up, and it’s Emily’s birthday in a few weeks. I guess you’ve been building up to it.’
‘No… I…’ I sip the champagne for comfort. ‘Simon, I saw them.’
‘So why aren’t they there now?’
‘Because you’ve deleted the account…’
‘If… and all I’m saying is “if” I suddenly decided to delete anything, why now? I didn’t even know you thought you were looking at these fictitious emails, so ask yourself why, if this was my email account for arranging rendezvous with junior colleagues – why would I delete it now?’
I can’t answer that.
‘You check my phone…’ I make a final, dying twitch, a vain hope that I’m not mad, but I’m worried that he might be right. ‘Perhaps you saw my history?’ But I know I deleted it.
The emails don’t exist. They never existed.
I stare at him. I know how this looks – it was almost a year ago that I accused the barmaid, and a year before that my friend and neighbour. There have been other accusations and paranoia in between, but it seems to reach a head around this time of year. Is he right? Does Emily’s birthday always cause me to become anxious and ill again?
He sits down. He’s speaking more gently to me now. ‘I am at my wits’ end, Marianne. Tonight wasn’t the first time you’ve embarrassed me in front of friends and colleagues. You get drunk, say inappropriate things – you’ve made my life a misery. But I’ve stayed… I’ve always stayed, because it’s my duty… and I love you. But I wonder if the children and I would be better off alone?’
‘No, no, you can’t say that… I won’t leave the children.’
‘You might have no choice if you continue on like this; you made a spectacle of yourself tonight and I don’t want you near my children.’
‘No, please, no. I love my kids and even you can’t change that. I might be mad, I might black out sometimes, make mistakes, drink sometimes, but I do everything for them. I’m capable of loving and caring for them. I’m here when you aren’t and I know who their teachers are, their friends… I know them, Simon. I know Alfie hates rugby and cries when you force him to play, and then you don’t even turn up to watch. I know your competitive nature is making Charlie more aggressive… like you. And I know you love them all, but you won’t acknowledge their flaws. Sophie’s developing a destructive relationship with food, and this will, if it continues, probably lead to destructive relationships with men. You want them to be perfect, but they aren’t and that’s okay, Simon. I’m not perfect either. I’ve made mistakes, but I know our kids. I may not have a career, I can’t operate on anyone, shit I can’t even pull pints,’ I say, taking a mild dig at last year’s model. ‘I don’t earn an amazing salary, but I love my kids and I’ll do anything for them. They need me.’
‘Knowing the minutiae of my children’s lives is a luxury I can’t afford because I’m too busy working to keep you in champagne and with a roof over all your heads. And now, after tonight’s debacle, you’ve probably lost me the promotion.’
‘You love your kids and you’re a good dad, but you don’t see enough of them. You blame it on work, but one day they’ll see that you find plenty of time for extra-curricular activities.’ I sigh. ‘I’ve called sometimes when you say you’re working late and you aren’t even there.’
‘You’re really not well; you need some time away.’ He’s shaking his head and looking into my eyes with such pity, I’m beginning to doubt myself. Yes, it’s possible that I imagined all this with Caroline, but I’m not convinced.
I take another sip of champagne while he guides me into the sitting room where we sit together on the sofa.
‘I accept that perhaps I haven’t been the most sensitive when it comes to Emily,’ he says. ‘But she was my child too – and I hurt every day, just like you.’
I was already tipsy, but this glass and the pills are going straight to my head.
‘I love you, Marianne, in spite of everything you’ve put me through. I still love you.’
Does he mean it? Do I care?
I look at him, but he’s swimming before my eyes and I can only just make out his face.
‘All I want is for you to get better.’
Is he jumping ship on Caroline, or is this just a way of luring me back to the psychiatric ward so he can move his woman and her full womb into my house?
Or did I imagine everything after all?
‘What if the kids had seen you tonight? Do you think they’d be proud, because I don’t,’ he snaps, slicing into my chest, opening up a fresh wound with his words.
I feel bad. Whatever the truth, it’s a fact that I’ve become obsessed and turned it into some crazy campaign.
‘You can’t rely on me to force you to take your meds, Marianne. You need to go back on the higher dose – remember when we went to the GP a few months ago? She suggested you take 45 mg of the Mirtazapine a day.’
‘She said that because you told her I was in the garden at night with no shoes on. You said I was putting books in the fridge, that I would lose it over nothing and scream at the kids.’
‘And you were. That’s why I went with you to the GP. You don’t realise, and you can’t face up to it. Marianne, your illness isn’t just destroying you, it’s destroying everyone you touch… including our children. You can blame me for Sophie’s eating problems and Charlie’s aggression, and Alfie not wanting to play sport, but you’re the one who cooks for Sophie, who disciplines Charlie and takes Alfie to practice. It’s you they’re railing against. And if you can’t see that, then I don’t think there’s any hope of you getting better.’
I don’t know what to say.
What if he’s right?
Am I to blame for the kids? Am I a bad mother after all? Would they be better off without me?
‘I spoke to Caroline before she left – in tears I might add – and she told me about the Instagram stalking, the weird invite for a secret lunch at the Italian and the way you forced her to send you a guest list and didn’t even use it. She says you’ve been making late-night phone calls too. Heavy breathing. You’re sick, Marianne.’
‘I didn’t make any late-night phone calls,’ I say, unable to deny the other crimes levied at me. I don’t r
ecall phoning her, but then again I do have her number. ‘Did she say it was me? If there was no caller ID, it could have been an old boyfriend. She’s had a lot, you know…’
‘Marianne, please, let’s not split hairs. Who else would it be? Caroline says the weirdo whispers vile stuff, but it’s a female voice – who else would be sick enough to make obscene phone calls to one of my female colleagues late at night? You’re the only person I know who has an unhealthy obsession with Caroline Harker… wow, I’m a lucky man to be married to you, aren’t I?’ His face is filled with loathing; he can’t bear to look at me.
I look back over everything I’ve done, concluding with the ‘spectacle’ tonight. Could I really have imagined everything again?
But, oh God, the stuff on her Instagram made me crazy. Then again, a staged photo of two glasses of wine and rumpled sheets does not an affair make, and it may have been his favourite wine, but it didn’t mean he was the man with her. Could it be possible I did just put two and two together and make six? It wouldn’t be the first time.
He’s now pacing the kitchen – he looks terrible and I watch him going back and forth like a caged animal. Behind him on the wall is the blown-up black and white photo of our wedding day. It’s mocking us, because the difference now is scary. We’re older, of course, but my once rounded face is hollow now. No smile, no hope like back then. Simon’s still handsome, but looks so much older than forty-two; he’s a shadow of the man I married, and it’s partly my fault. Because of my behaviour we’ve had to move house, lose friends, the kids have had to change schools and tonight I finally stripped him of his privacy and dignity by inviting his boss and colleagues into our home and humiliating him. Looking at him now, pacing, his face unshaven, his eyes unslept, I can see what I’ve done. I know he’s been cruel to me, but I’ve also been cruel to him.
‘Whatever’s happened between us, I’m sorry – I apologise,’ I say, offering the olive branch. ‘I don’t want a reconciliation and I’m sure you don’t either – but we need to be able to talk to each other in order to move on, even if it is in the opposite direction.’ Even if I’ve imagined it all and there was a chance for us, I couldn’t stay with him, not after what we’ve done to each other.