Becca and Rosie turned up expecting a relaxing morning of play park and ice creams. Ever since the funeral, Mondays had been our day, a new routine of friendship and chat, resurrected from years of silence without hesitation or any sort of grudge. But things had evolved from the drunken, blurry nights of old, to Play-Doh and tea and sandpits. There was nothing boring about our new routine and our new lives, just comfort and consistency.
Over the weeks, we had talked. Endless chatter and laughter, making up for those lost years. I apologised again; she seemed to forgive me. I met Matt, and Becca showed me photos of their wedding. He seemed nice: calm, easy-going, loving, everything David hadn’t been. She confided a horrible period of post-natal depression and I shared pieces of my life with David. A lot remained unsaid. I wanted it to stay that way.
As I outlined my plan, she nodded without a word, and we unfurled lines of bin bags. We stripped suits and shirts from their hangers and stuffed them in without respect or care, throwing old hair products and moisturiser and razorblades in another, ready for the bin. We took to the room as a surgeon takes to a tumour, systematically cutting away any part of David that remained, without emotion or thought.
At one point Becca turned to me, a pair of purple cufflinks in her hand: that pair, the pair I was sure were a gift from some woman or other. I wondered how many other presents from his affairs had made their way into our house. ‘Do you miss him?’ she asked gently.
I paused, tying up one bin bag and opening another. ‘I don’t miss him as such. Not the reality of him, our day-to-day life. I suppose I do miss the nice parts of him, when we could pretend we were a normal loving couple.’ I sat on the naked bed, pillows stacked waiting for their new clothes. ‘But that was never really normal, it was always about waiting and being scared for the next time he would turn and be the different David, the real David. I guess I’m just sad about what could have been. Watching Johnny grow up together, getting old, having a normal married life.’ I shook my head. ‘But that was never real, and would never have been, not with David.’
‘What would you have done, do you think, if he hadn’t died?’
‘I don’t know.’ I replied. ‘I don’t know.’
Pizza cooked and cooled, the chips distributed to happy children, we all sit round the table and eat. We laugh at Johnny’s demands for more ketchup, and Becca tolerates Rosie’s lunchtime diet of chips, chips and only chips, mushed into her face. She shakes her head and ruffles Rosie’s hair. ‘I’ll force a banana down her later,’ she mutters.
After lunch we drag the endless stream of bin liners out of the door and into my car, or straight into the wheelie bin with a thump. After we persuade two exhausted children to sleep, we wipe down every surface with anti-bac and window cleaner, and finally, on reflection, I take down the black-and-white prints of bleak trees and wind-bleached landscapes and put them in the car with the rest of the stuff for charity. All finished, we sit back in the room, windows still open and cool glasses of Diet Coke in our hands.
I already know what pictures I want on the wall: lots of photos. Johnny as a baby, Johnny aged four months, head up and smiling at tummy time, Johnny aged six months with pureed butternut squash round his month. Unashamedly the centre of my world now, unashamedly spoilt.
I glance at Becca and take a deep breath. ‘So there’s this guy.’
Her head snaps round. ‘Really? What guy? Who?’
It’s Adam, of course. We’ve met up at the park a few times, deliberately now, co-ordinating schedules by text, and Georgia and Johnny have enjoyed a few play dates arguing over toys while Adam and I drink tea. We talk about our day, the challenges of small children and shared concerns. He makes me laugh; I feel good around him. Normal.
So we have become friends. And while friends is good, the fluttering in my stomach and the constant checking for messages on my phone makes me wonder whether it could be anything more.
‘He’s a neighbour,’ I say to Becca. I take a deep breath. ‘I was thinking about asking him around for dinner.’
‘Do it!’ she says, with a big smile. ‘What’s he like? Have you got a photo?’
‘He’s nice. But don’t you think it might be too soon? I mean, since David died?’
Becca puts a hand on my arm. ‘Only you know that. If it feels too soon, then give it a bit longer. You’ve gone through a tough time. And besides, you don’t want to rush things. Before too long you’ll be married, normal and boring, peeing with the door open and arguing over whose turn it is to take the bins out. Just look at me and Matt.’
I laugh and finish off my Coke, looking out of the window. The sky is a perfect bright blue, with gentle white clouds scudding across. I’ll give it a few more weeks, I tell myself, then give Adam a call. I’m not afraid of normal and boring. A bit of normal and boring is just what I’m looking for right now.
Newspaper
A loud banging on metal. Annie opened her eyes and found herself lying on a bed, staring up at the ceiling. A white ceiling. She heard the banging again, a fist against her door.
‘Sullivan!’ it shouted. ‘You have a visitor.’
She sat up, swinging her legs down to the cold floor. She saw a pair of white slippers and slid her feet into them. She looked down at what she was wearing: the white top and grey tracksuit trousers again.
She stood up and walked towards the door, trying the handle and pulling it open. A large polar bear of a woman stood on the other side, her hands on her ample hips, a scowl on her face.
‘I haven’t got all day, Annabelle,’ she said, and gestured down the corridor with a sarcastic wave of her hand.
Annie started walking. Her legs felt wobbly, like she hadn’t used them in some time, and she ran one hand down the wall to keep her balance. Identical doors lined the corridor, the same metal doors with the tiny glass window. Too high to look in to find out what lay behind.
Her head was fuzzy; she couldn’t work out what was going on. Only patches of memory poked through. David’s leering face, Johnny’s smile. A white car, red flowers. Poker chips and a blue train. Confusion shadowed her every move, blurring her thoughts.
They stopped at the end of the corridor, and the woman pushed past Annie to slide a key in the lock. It opened with a heavy clunk and she pushed the door open. Annie was cold, a deep chill down to her bones, and she hugged her arms around her. She saw a sign for a toilet and pointed.
‘I need to pee,’ she said, and the woman sighed.
‘Go on then, I’ll wait here.’
Annie pushed into the toilet and sat down in one of the stalls. It was bland and grey and boring; indistinguishable from every other public loo. The toilet roll came out in little squares from a dispenser, the flush was a button on the lid. She pulled her tracksuit trousers up and went to wash her hands, jumping when she saw the person in the mirror.
This wasn’t her; it couldn’t be her, could it? Slowly she moved closer to the image. She touched her protruding cheekbones, running her fingers around the dark circles under her eyes. Her hair lay dank and dirty, tied back roughly in a scruffy ponytail. She looked downwards, taking in the jutting collarbone, the empty bra, poking at her bony ribcage and concave stomach. She frowned at her face in the mirror, then turned as the toilet door opened and the woman stuck her head around.
‘Come on, they won’t wait all day.’
It was Becca. But not the Becca she was used to in real life. This one looked older: more worried, more tired.
The room was white, and packed with plastic chairs and tables reminiscent of their school days. When Annie went to sit down, she realised the tables were bolted to the floor. Becca was the only person there, and the woman moved back, watching them both from the other side of the room.
Becca had a small disposable cup of grey tea in front of her. ‘Do you want one?’ she asked gently. ‘Are you allowed?’
Annie shrugged. This dream was making her tired and sluggish. She just didn’t care; she didn’t seem to have the energy.<
br />
‘How are you?’
She shrugged again. ‘Fine, I guess.’
‘Are you eating? You look like you’ve got even thinner.’
‘I don’t know,’ Annie said, and thought back. When was the last time she had had a meal? She couldn’t remember, not in this dream anyway. But she didn’t feel hungry; she didn’t really feel anything.
Becca babbled on, talking about Rosie, about Matt, about her life. She kept her gaze on Annie’s face, never wavering. She was giving Annie a headache.
‘Did I bring you here?’ Annie asked, cutting across her chatter.
Becca paused. ‘No, I asked to come and see you.’
‘So is this my subconscious?’ Becca stopped and stared at her. Annie carried on. ‘I mean, is this my dream or yours?’
Becca frowned, and looked at the woman watching them from across the room. The woman shook her head slowly.
‘I saw Adam the other day,’ Becca said. ‘He’d like to come and see you.’
‘You saw Adam? Why would you see Adam?’ Annie sat up in her chair.
‘He got in touch, after …’ She paused. ‘Would you like him to come and visit?’
‘I only just saw him the other day, at the park. Why would he want to come here?’ Annie asked.
‘To see you,’ Becca said.
‘Five minutes,’ the woman shouted across the room, and Becca glanced in her direction again, then looked back at Annie and took her hands in hers.
‘Annie, look at me,’ she said, and Annie glanced up. ‘We had the appeal yesterday.’ Becca took a deep breath and Annie could see tears in her eyes. ‘We tried. Both Adam and I, we did all we could, but I’m sorry, Annie, he’s gone.’
‘Who’s gone?’ Annie said.
A tear ran down Becca’s cheek and she angrily brushed it away. ‘Johnny. I’m so sorry, Annie.’
Annie sat up and pulled her hands away. ‘What do you mean, he’s gone? He’s at home, he’s fine, he’s in bed.’
The sides of Becca’s mouth went down and her chin crumpled. ‘Do you remember what your doctors discussed with you, Annie? Do you remember what they said?’ She took a newspaper out of her bag and put it in front of her. ‘Look at it, Annie. Read it.’ She was talking slowly and deliberately, a red blush creeping up her neck as she pointed at the page. ‘How is this gone from your head?’ she said, rubbing her face in frustration. ‘Why do you not remember?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Annie shouted, putting her hand on the front page of the paper and ripping it off, balling it up.
The woman moved across from the other side of the room, her body language ready for action, but Annie had jumped up from the chair and was gone, running back down the corridor, back to her room, the white room, lying down on the white bed, looking up at the white ceiling. She couldn’t make sense of what Becca was saying; she didn’t understand. Her brain felt slow and muddled.
But she knew one person who would know what was going on, and she knew how to find him.
The ballroom
Annie stood in a massive room. The high ceilings were arched and elaborately decorated with blues and purples and silver stars. Huge vaulted curves towered above her, each one individual, each one designed to the highest quality.
Her panic had gone, faded out as quickly as the ballroom had appeared. The blur in her head cleared, replaced by a sense of calm, of belonging.
‘Do you like it? I put it together, I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Jack, what’s going on?’ Annie turned to face him, knowing who would be behind her. ‘I’m having a recurring nightmare and I can’t control it.’
‘Do you like it?’ he asked again, ignoring her and pointing around the room. The walls were covered in artwork of some kind, colours jumping out at her, intense and rich. Floral scenes, animals, portraits, patterns, different in period and technique.
She took a deep breath. ‘It’s incredible.’
Jack was dressed in a black dinner jacket and bow tie. The white shirt looked crisp and bright and the silk lapels of the jacket glowed in the light. He smiled, and held out his hands.
‘Would you like to dance, madam?’
She realised a band had started playing, a light and bouncy tune, something she recognised from a dark recess of her mind but couldn’t place. She looked down at a wooden dance floor, varnished and sparkling. She caught a glimpse of her feet, encased in the highest silver heels, fitting her perfectly, and took in her dress, an intricate creation of shimmering silver covered in sequins, fitted on top, billowing out with layers of silk.
She placed her hand in his and he pulled her to him in an elaborate spin. She executed it perfectly, and fell into place next to him, her back arched, one hand in his, the other round his slight waist. They started to move in perfect synchronisation and she laughed, her previous worries temporarily forgotten. Their movements were smooth and in time with the music, swaying together and moving gracefully round the dance floor, feet matching perfectly, perfect speed, perfect timing.
‘Amazing,’ she whispered as they danced.
He looked down, his eyes meeting hers, their feet never missing a step.
The song came to an end, and Jack went to start the next one, but Annie led him away, to the tables laid out round the room. Each table was covered with a crisp white tablecloth, a bouquet of white lilies with big green waxy leaves in the centre. She took a seat next to him, her eyes never leaving his face.
‘Jack, please tell me. I’m having this dream – it’s a white room, and I’m a prisoner there.’
He looked away from her, back out to the throng of dancers. As ignorant as the other dreamers were, they certainly looked like they were having fun. People of all shapes and sizes, dressed in their best finery from all eras – stiff corsets and top hats, silk ruffles, tiny cocktail dresses, a bit of velvet here, a sequin there – all dancing together without a worry in the world.
Annie took his hand. ‘Jack? Please?’
He looked back at her, his eyes worried. ‘Oh Annie, how can you not know?’ he said.
‘Please tell me. I’m scared, Jack,’ she pleaded, trying to keep her voice measured.
Jack ran a hand through his hair. ‘When I first found you, I didn’t understand. I couldn’t see how it was possible. But then I took it for the gift it was, and I got to know you.’ He shook his head. ‘I still don’t understand now.’
He cleared his throat, and looked out into the crowd of dancers, now engaged in a quick foxtrot to something upbeat.
‘And then you started talking about David, and wanting him dead, and I just thought …’ He stopped, and shook his head. ‘I don’t know what I thought.’
Annie looked at him, more confused than ever. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
He sighed. ‘Annie, it’s so hard to explain, and I hope you won’t be angry with me.’
‘Why would I be angry with you? You’ve changed my life so much, so much for the better.’ She tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t face her.
‘For not telling you the truth from the very beginning. But I couldn’t, I didn’t know how. I hope you’ll be able to see that.’
Around them the scene changed. The dancers slipped away, the walls closed in and the ballroom was replaced by the comfortable living room that she’d been to before, the browns and the beige, the spider plant and the complicated-looking television.
‘This is the house I grew up in,’ Jack said. He was sitting on the edge of one of the sofas, looking odd in his black formal dinner jacket and bow tie. Annie stood up with a swoosh of grey silk, and moved to the mantelpiece, picking up the photo of the older couple.
‘Are these your parents?’
Jack nodded. She studied the photo. ‘They look happy.’
‘They were. We were. I had a very happy childhood. I was lucky. It could have easily worked out differently.’
Annie put the photo down and turned back to him. ‘What do you mean?’
He gestured towards the other photo frames, the ones face down. ‘Look at the photos, Annie.’
Annie picked one up and looked straight into the bright blue eyes of a little boy she recognised. A face she knew better than any other, and loved more than anything in the world.
She turned it round slowly so it faced Jack.
‘This is Johnny,’ she said.
Jack nodded. ‘There’s a lot I need to tell you.’
Smudged and worn
The living room faded out, and the ballroom reappeared. Time stopped. The dancers slowed, the room paused in time, frozen in a second. And then it began to move again, a merry-go-round starting up, accelerating until everything was full speed once more.
‘But your name is Jack,’ she stuttered.
‘My name is David John Sullivan. Or at least it was.’
Annie jerked backwards, her head spinning. ‘It was?’ She grasped the table and stared at him, taking in his blue eyes, the features of his face. It was hard to make out the small boy from the adult, but now that she knew, she could see his eyes were hers, and they had the same eyebrows. But there were also traces of David: his jaw and his mouth. Now that she knew, he was unmistakable; he was hers. Her little boy.
‘My name now is John Bennett, or Jack for short. I was adopted when I was four.’ He was talking very slowly, watching her face closely to see how she was taking it. ‘I was adopted by a wonderful couple, and I had the best childhood. But I always wondered what happened to my parents.’
He stopped and looked down, thinking for a moment.
‘Go on,’ Annie said tentatively.
‘My parents, my adopted parents, gave me a letter.’
‘A letter?’ Annie was afraid to ask. ‘What did it say?’
He turned away and looked back to the dance floor. ‘I can show you.’ He smiled. ‘You won’t be able to read it, but I can tell you what it says.’
The Dream Wife Page 24