‘What was up with Riley?’ I say.
Robin pushes the wooden spoon into the lump of congealed rice and lets go. It stands up straight, as though positioned in Play Doh.
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Just separation anxiety, I guess. She misses you.’
I miss her too.
I feel my body stiffen and I pull away, reaching above Robin’s shoulder for a glass. Wine will help.
‘Things will calm down again soon. Perhaps she doesn’t get enough stimulation? Just being here at home with you?’
‘What?’ Robin says, and any warm intimacy between us immediately cools.
‘I mean . . . I just mean, if she was at nursery, maybe even one or two mornings a week, it’d . . .’
‘She’s too young! And anyway,’ he replies, ‘we can’t afford it.’
I pause, thinking of my father’s money, that could pay for her to go to the most exclusive nursery in Wimbledon, plus private school beyond. But for some reason I don’t want to tell Robin about it. Not when he’s in this mood. He’s already emasculated enough by our situation; this would push him over the edge.
‘I suppose,’ I say.
I am a coward. It’s my newest favourite position – head in the sand. There are so many things niggling at the back of my mind, not least of all the adoption.
‘Anyway, she’s not alone with me all day,’ he says. ‘We do go out, you know. I don’t cage her up the second you leave for the office and spend the day sitting in my pyjamas in front of the television.’
I flinch at his words.
‘Yes,’ I say, feeling my temper rise. ‘I know. And it’s great. I just thought, maybe a more formal setting, where she might learn . . .’
‘She’s too young,’ he snaps. ‘It’s best for children up to the age of two to be looked after by a single primary carer.’
I hold his gaze as he stares at me. His eyes are bloodshot, and I can’t tell if it’s from the large glass of red that sits by the hob, the cigarettes he half-heartedly leans out of the window for, the long-term tiredness that permeates our very bones, or whether he’s actually been crying.
A single primary carer.
That’s all he thinks Riley needs. His way of telling me what I already know, that I’m superfluous in this relationship. That he can do it all without me.
I narrow my eyes. That’s what he proved to me when he got Kim pregnant, and whether he means to or not, in a million tiny ways he’s been reminding me of it ever since.
Robin
I thought the risotto would work. Glass of wine, nice dinner, get her to open up. I’m tired of her hiding things, of us slipping back to the way we were. But I messed up the dinner. Typical. And as usual, she’s clammed up inside herself.
Why won’t she let me in? Why does she still push me away when she needs me most?
Sometimes I wonder if I chose the wrong woman. But it’s an idle thought. Ridiculous. Of course, I didn’t have a choice at all.
When Kim told me about her pregnancy, she was a wreck. Even though she never actually said it, I genuinely thought she might have an abortion. Surely fate couldn’t be that cruel twice over? She was torn; I was terrified. It took some persuading – and I’ll admit, some intense emotional blackmail on my part – to convince her to let us take the baby on.
I haven’t seen Kim since that day on the common, more than a year ago, when I looked into her eyes and realised that, as long as she was alive, she could never truly hand her baby over. It made me uncomfortable. Like the air in the room was suddenly too hot.
Nothing has worked out as I’d hoped. And now, she won’t leave me alone. She’s far too involved with Riley. The messages aren’t daily, but at least weekly. Little check-ups, seeing how we’re doing, requests for pictures.
It won’t be long before she asks for Riley back, and then what do I do?
Why can’t she just leave us alone?
I swallow, push the sleeves of my jumper up my arms. Even my wrists are sweaty.
Esther’s eyeing me, a perfect poker face. We’re like boxers in the ring, trying to work out who will make the first move.
I stare at her, covered in thick make-up from the photoshoot she did earlier. It doesn’t suit her. Make-up suits Kim, it suits her persona, the character she always plays. But Esther is just Esther, and the make-up makes it look like she’s trying on someone else’s face.
‘I’m tired,’ she says. ‘Long day. Long week.’
Same old excuse every time.
‘Sure,’ I say, flicking my eyes towards the pan of burnt risotto. Still hiding things. Still doesn’t trust me. ‘Domino’s?’
She sniffs. ‘Fine. I’ll go and wash this off.’ She points to her face and heads towards the bathroom, pausing with her hand on the door handle.
‘You know I’ll always be there for you, don’t you?’ I say. It’s not exactly a reassurance. ‘If there’s anything . . . anything on your mind.’
She gives a half-hearted smile. Nope, she’s still not going to do it.
‘Yes, Bird. I know.’
Later, after we’ve eaten our pizzas, we sit on the sofa together in front of the television, watching the comedy roadshow programme as usual. Esther at one end, laptop on her lap, me at the other. I am trying to ignore the anger that’s bubbling away inside. I wish she’d put the computer down and just talk to me. Or even look at me.
‘Work busy?’ I say, turning off the television just as Jay Martin is about to make his biggest gag. I’ve heard his set a hundred times before, analysed it to death. His popularity and success astound me. So MOR, so pedestrian, but the brainless idiots in the audience lap it up. I press the button on the remote control so hard that my fingertip hurts: perverse, pathetic satisfaction in cutting him off just before his big delivery.
Esther looks up.
‘What?’ she says. ‘Oh. No, I was . . . nothing. Doesn’t matter.’ She shuts the lid of the laptop. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say magnanimously, although my hands are twitching. ‘If you have to work, you have to work.’
The edge to my voice gets her attention.
‘No, it was nothing,’ she says, looking at the television. ‘Sorry, was it funny? He was getting rather hysterical.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘It was crap. I’m much funnier. Talk to me instead.’
She looks nervous as I reach out and stroke her on the leg. I swallow.
Talk to me!
‘I’m sorry,’ she replies. ‘It’s just . . .’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I reply. ‘Too important to talk to your husband. Work, work, work. You know, you could spend a bit more time with us. With . . . me.’
‘Jesus, Rob!’ she shouts, suddenly springing up off the sofa. ‘What do you expect me to do? We can’t both be out of work! You know it’s important to me, that we’re not struggling. You know how hard it was for me growing up, my dad not earning enough. We need the money!’
I frown at her. Her explosion has come out of nowhere, and I don’t like it. So we’ve both been sitting here, simmering away, have we? My own anger rises. She’s left me with no choice.
‘But that’s not true, is it, Esther?’ I say, and my heart is pounding.
Fuck you, Esther. Fuck you and your lies and your deceit and your pretending to love me when you’re just like all the others, you’re just like her. What a disappointment you are, you treacherous wage slave.
‘Because your dad’s money has come through . . .’ I stand up and walk to the bookcase, picking up the letter that arrived that morning and handing it to her.
‘Before you say anything, Riley opened it. From your solicitor. Five hundred thousand pounds of your dad’s money, coming our way. Further to your email correspondence . . . so when exactly, when exactly, were you going to tell me about it?’
Esther
&nb
sp; I stare at my husband, hunting for a memory, a time when things felt right. How can things between us have changed so quickly and so completely? And now we’re trapped in this situation. Like we’ve climbed on a rollercoaster and want to change our minds and get off, but we can’t. We’re strapped in until the end. Hold on tight for the ride of your life!
I want to shout but as usual I don’t have the energy for the fight. I don’t have the confidence you need, the utter belief that my side of things is right.
I can’t trust myself. I lost that trust the day I sent that email, and I can’t get it back, no matter what I do.
I miss Viv. I think about what she said when I told her our plan to take on Kim’s baby: ‘Jesus, there’s making lemonade out of lemons and then there’s you two. Are you serious? Is it even legal?’
But what could I do? Kim was going to get rid of the baby. Robin’s baby. He was the father, after all. And I was so desperate, after everything I went through. What choice did I have?
‘I . . .’ I say.
‘Come on.’ His voice is almost a snarl. ‘I can’t wait to hear it. The excuse . . . sorry, I mean “reasons”, to explain why you decided to hide this from me. I’m your husband.’
He never used to be like this. Not this . . . nasty.
I try to hold his gaze but the intensity in his eyes is too much for me. He exhausts me. He asks too much of me. He needs too much of me. I still love him, or at least I love the water-stain memory of how he used to be, but I can’t cope with the reality, of our life as it is today.
‘I just . . .’ I say, looking away. One of Riley’s socks is lying on the floor beside me and I reach down and pick it up, smoothing it flat between my hands. ‘I haven’t hidden it from you.’
‘You didn’t even tell me you’d found a buyer for the bungalow!’
‘I know . . . I just . . . I just didn’t want to think about it. The money. What it meant. My dad . . .’
I start to cry.
‘My dad’s money . . .’ I say, letting the tears fall. If only he could accept what the tears really mean, without being offended. Leave me alone, give me some space. ‘I only have it because he’s dead. He’s gone. I still can’t . . . I can’t believe I never got to say goodbye. I’m so angry. I’m so furious! If only you’d let me . . .’
I stop. That’s not fair.
‘The house . . . where they found him . . . everything it means . . . I find it hard to talk to you, because I know you don’t see eye to eye with your dad, and I didn’t want to rub it in . . . that I loved him, I loved him so much but . . .’
Rob walks towards me and wraps me in his arms. I try to relax, but my body won’t do as it’s told and I’m as stiff as a board.
‘I’m sorry, Esther,’ he says, smoothing his hands over my hair. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? For God’s sake, I’m your husband, I love you more than anyone. I’m here for you. You don’t need to put me first; you don’t need to protect me from . . . from my feelings about my own bloody father! For fuck’s sake. I’m here for you. Why didn’t you tell me you were so upset? I just want to help you.’
He pulls away and cups my face in his hands, lifting it up so that I’m staring straight at him. He used to do this a lot, this possessive gesture, right before he kissed me. It made me feel chosen, special, cared for. It turned me on, how small and delicate he made me feel. But this time his hands feel thick and heavy around my jawline. He’s so much bigger than me. He could wrench my head clean off.
I hold his gaze. He’s never been violent. I’m just tired. I’m so tired and sad and fed up of my own mind. My own self-flagellation, the streams of nonsense that rampage around my brain on endless loops.
I have everything I ever wanted. Why can’t I just be happy?
‘You need to trust me again, Tot,’ he says. I am grateful, briefly, that he hasn’t kissed me, that for once we haven’t fallen back into our old ways, covered up the cracks. The lust I used to feel for him in this situation seems to have dissipated completely. Instead I feel uncomfortable, like his behaviour is inappropriate. ‘Look what happened last time you tried to hide how you were feeling. Look where that got us.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and with difficulty I reach my arm up to tuck his thick curly hair behind his ears. ‘It’s just the money . . . it’s difficult.’
I swallow. He’s still staring at me, pinning me with his eyes.
‘What about the money?’ he says. His voice is gentle. He’s not angry now. He’s sad.
‘It’s . . . emasculating,’ I say, the word almost a whisper.
Rob gazes at me, his eyes popping, and then he clutches my face harder, jerking my head upwards so that it hurts. Then he laughs.
‘Oh my God,’ he says, throwing back his head. ‘Oh, my darling girl. Oh that’s good . . . that’s really good.’
I frown and he lets go of my face. My fingers find my jawline, rubbing it where it aches.
‘It’s not funny.’
He’s still laughing.
‘Oh, Tot . . . Oh, I love you.’
He shakes his head from side to side, gazing at me as though I’m some kind of alien creature.
‘Rob,’ I say. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘You’re right,’ he says, pursing his lips together. ‘It’s not funny at all.’
I can’t say anything. I can’t point out that I know how much his lack of income is affecting his self-esteem. Despite this . . . show. Despite everything he says.
Time and time again I tell myself that if Robin was a woman, no one would bat an eyelid at his decision to give up work and look after Riley. But without his career, I find it hard to see the shape of him.
When we first met, his work was everything to him. He was brilliant on stage, transforming into something else, larger than life, a firework of energy fizzing and popping and lighting up the whole room. I understood why he had to drink so much after a show, why his comedown involved staying up late and smoking until all the adrenalin had left his body. People constantly told me how hilarious he was, how surely his own roadshow was just around the corner? Even Vivienne admitted he was good at what he did.
‘Your work,’ I say. ‘It was everything to you. What about your sitcom? You haven’t done anything on it for ages.’
I look down. I’m a coward. I’ve left the important things unsaid. The real reason I miss him working: because it gave me space. It allowed me to breathe. It meant I didn’t have to be everything to him, all the time.
His jaw hardens.
‘My work isn’t going anywhere,’ he says. ‘There are other things at the moment that are more important. Like being your husband. Like being Riley’s father. The real stuff. The important stuff.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But . . . you can’t . . . you need something for yourself, too. Something . . . else.’
He frowns at me.
‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Let me worry about what I need.’
I look away. It feels like he’s closed the door on this conversation. And I still haven’t brought up Kim.
Robin
I lie in our bed, staring at the ceiling. There are three cracks that run across it. They’ve been there since we bought the place; I have stared at them nightly. I suppose a more responsible man would have investigated by now – some problem with the ceiling itself, or the joists above? Or just the inevitable movement of an old building? Who knows?
Esther is taking ages in the bathroom. It’s gone 11pm, and Riley will be awake at 5.30am for the day, if we’re lucky. How could I have continued my career on that timetable anyway? I would have been going to bed when Riley was waking up. We would all have been absolutely exhausted.
Where is she?
I roll over on to my side, staring at the alarm clock. Thinking about what Esther said. Emasculating. Is that how she sees me? As some poor pathetic bloke who
’s had his balls cut off just because his wife brings home all the money? I thought she was more intelligent than that. I thought she understood me.
I feel my fists tighten with anger that the world still sees fathers who look after their kids as failing somehow. I read a report in the paper last week that said take-up of shared parental leave had been as low as two per cent. All those men out there, still measuring their success by the size of their pay packets, not the size of their hearts.
I’m ashamed of my gender.
I’m ashamed of her too. Esther.
I’m doing a good job! I’m a good dad. I might have failed at everything else, but I’m not going to fail at fatherhood.
At least now it’s out in the open. Her father’s money means we can move house, get somewhere bigger. I’ve never been particularly interested in interior design, but this place has started to feel claustrophobic. Riley’s bedroom is little more than a cupboard, really, and she accumulates more stuff by the day.
I roll over again. The pillow feels too hot, so I flip it, but it’s just as hot on the other side too.
Where is she?
I know what she’s really angry about, of course. It’s Kim. The adoption. Esther won’t admit it, but that’s what’s causing all this; the secrecy, the increasing sense of distance between us. It’s like a festering sore, eating away at our relationship, growing bigger every day.
But I don’t know how to fix it. It’s not something I can fix. Not easily.
I sit up, pushing the duvet away and swinging my legs out of bed. Then I pace through the hall barefoot, my toe catching on one of the nails we missed when we pulled up the old carpet, sending a spike of pain through the skin of my foot. That’s another thing. These floorboards. Not exactly child-friendly.
It’s not hard to work out where Esther’s gone. Riley’s bedroom door is ajar, the pink warmth of her rabbit nightlight throwing a shadow on the floor outside.
The Perfect Father: the most gripping and twisty thriller you'll read in 2020 Page 11