“What can I do for you?” I kept my tone pleasant.
“Lucy sent me,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “She thinks I was rude to you earlier, so as usual I’ve had to do as I’m told.” He smirked again. “She thinks I should apologise.”
I was a little taken aback by this: apologies were rare for Russ. He got himself into scrapes often but was generally too proud to apologise or make amends. As a result many of the villagers thought less well of him than they should. He was arrogant, yes, but it was mainly a facade, just another way to rebel against the order and control he had grown up with. He had always taken great pleasure in embarrassing his uptight and conventional parents with his wild and daring behaviour.
“You were just protecting her, I’m a stranger to you folks, I understand that.”
He took another swig of his beer, taking in what I’d said with no visible reaction. “Well, she’s usually right, our Luce. I was too harsh, but she’s vulnerable.” His brow furrowed. “She’s been through more than either of us have,” his voice grew soft as he spoke of her, “and probably ever will in our lifetime.”
“I’m sorry to hear about her husband, it must be a rough time for her,” I said, taking another swig of beer. “I hope he makes a full recovery.” The words were hard for me to say but they seemed appropriate for Adam in the circumstances.
Russ shook his head, eyes dark with a sudden hint of irritation. “I don’t,” he said quietly.
“Do the two of you not get on?”
“You could say that. He’s no good for her.” Russ stared at the fire, just as I had done earlier that evening.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s the truth. They’ve never seemed right together. Just a bit off key.” He turned to me. “You know… like there’s something out of place.”
“They aren’t comfortable with each other?”
“Nah, they get on… too well actually. I’ve never witnessed one argument between them, but I’ve seen Lucy happier.”
“With someone else?”
“Aye, someone who quarrelled and battled with her, made her see sense enough to change her ways.” Russ shrugged as he stared at the fire. “I don’t know. She just seems unhappy sometimes… lonely.”
I thought about Lucy’s husband's occupation “I suppose doctors do work long hours, maybe that's what it is.”
Russ looked up suddenly. “Nah, it’s got nothing to do with that. There’s something not right there.”
He started to get up out of his chair and for a second I thought it was the start of another confrontation. He walked over to the window and peered through a crack in the curtains.
“I can’t be there for her as often as I’d like to be, due to my dry stone walling business, but I trust you,” Russ declared. He looked back at me from his position by the window. “Do me a favour? Look out for her and report any unusual behaviour to me. I’d really appreciate it, Adam.”
I nodded. “I won’t let you down.” It was a promise that came easy to me.
“Thanks, bud. It feels good to know she has someone close by.” He glanced at the door. “Time I was going, I think. Thanks for accepting my apology, I’m glad we cleared the air.”
“Me too.” I smiled at him before he let himself out.
The sound of the wind and rain lashing the old, weathered stones of the cottage could be heard during the few seconds the door was open. I shuddered as the cold wind enveloped me in its icy embrace. During nights like this Lucy and I would huddle together under a soft lamb’s wool blanket in the treehouse and gaze at the stars through the glass ceiling.
The urge for more beer came out of the blue and, without realising it, I had opened another bottle. I was never a big drinker and didn’t understand Russ’s love of alcohol but perhaps I had missed it more than I’d realised?
As I downed the ale I ran through my conversation with him once more. There had been a sense of unease in it that I found impossible to ignore. It was true what Russ had said, I had made Lucy happy. It saddened me to realise that she hadn’t experienced the same level of contentment since my departure. I knew how easy it was to love her, but if Russ’s fears were to be believed, it certainly sounded as if she had stumbled hastily into a loveless marriage. Had there been any proper feeling between them? If she’d rushed into things too quickly with the doctor, what was her motive? Except for a temporary lack of mental stability in her last year of university, imprudent and careless behaviour was not the norm for Lucy. She was level-headed and self-disciplined, the kind of person who had to have her life planned out and every possible outcome carefully considered before she made any decision.
A clap of thunder rumbled loudly over the sound of the violent rainfall outside and a white flash lit the room. A second later the house was plunged into darkness. I had turned the lights on during Russ’s visit but now only the glow of the embers in the hearth emitted a small amount of light that cast ghostly shadows around the room. I decided I needed another source and so went in search of candles. I began to open drawers and cupboards in the sitting room, riffling through personal belongings I should have left undisturbed.
In my search I found a child’s drawing of a monster, an old teething ring complete with small tooth marks, a collection of model railway magazines dating back to the eighties and a birth certificate. Under a pile of birthday cards I found a large, hardback book that I guessed was a photo album.
Desperately in need of some light, I threw more logs on the smouldering embers in the grate, in the hope that they would ignite and bring back the warm glow the fire had produced earlier in the evening. After it had morphed from weak cinders into a steady, comforting blaze, I placed the album in front of the deep orange glow. I turned it over and saw the words ‘Adam and Emma’s Memories’ written neatly across the front.
I opened the first page and saw an image of myself – or at least the face I now saw in the mirror each morning. Adam looked carefree and youthful in this picture and I placed his age in the late teens. His hair was long and curled slightly at his ears and over his neck. I started to wonder who he had been back then. A rebel, a joker, a smooth-talking Casanova? Some would say he had the looks for it. Or was he more the quiet, unassuming, intellectual type? I didn’t know and that bothered me. He wasn’t smiling in the picture, in fact he looked dejected and downcast. The caption underneath was handwritten and stated:
Adam 2003, first day of university.
I flipped the page over and found a picture of a young woman, around the same age as Adam would have been in the previous photograph. The caption at the bottom told me she was Adam’s wife, Emma, and that this photo had also been taken in the year 2003. As Adam had described in his diary, Emma had long, glossy red hair that fell straight as an arrow and was striking against her alabaster skin. She was laughing at something happening behind the camera, making it appear as though she had been taken by surprise in the midst of a funny joke or action. Her eyes crinkled in joy and her perfectly straight teeth were a dentist’s dream. She had high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Her eyes were an unusual shape, almost feline, and drew an onlooker in as though they held some sort of secret.
She was an attractive woman, I didn’t mind admitting that, but I couldn’t help but think she was out of Adam’s league. One hand was raised to sweep her lustrous hair back, and the other was placed on her right hip. The photo was mesmerising and I wondered whether the photographer had captured a glimpse of her carefree spirit or if the pose had been staged.
Seeing her image lent life to her for me, as if I had known her myself. I turned the page again and found a picture of Adam and Emma as bride and groom, smiling outside the local church as guests showered them in rose petals.
I skimmed past the next few photos that appeared to be more wedding shots, including holiday snaps that saw them posing outside various temples and extravagant buildings, a hint that these were memories of their honeymoon. I stopped at a picture of them both smiling
while Emma held a pink and seemingly wriggly infant, swaddled in soft cloth. I could tell by the surroundings, as well as Emma’s obvious exhaustion, that the picture had been taken at the hospital. Proud parents showing off a new-born Ben. I smiled at the image and wondered what had gone so dismally wrong for them both.
The next few pictures captured Ben as a toddler, growing fast and reaching various milestones: first smile, first laugh, first crawl, first step. The last photo saw him at around three years old. He had a small lunchbox in hand and the caption read: ‘Ben’s first day at nursery’.
There were pages left blank in the album, enough space for many more photographs. I wondered if this was the last stage in their relationship. The last time someone had bothered to capture their lives together. The last time someone cared. As I absentmindedly flicked through the blank pages I saw a thin piece of paper flutter in between the folds. I took it out for inspection. The paper was light pink with small blue flowers dotted around the edges that reminded me of the forget-me-nots that grew near the river. It was obvious by its layout that this was a letter.
Adam,
I’m leaving. A simple sentence but an important one. More specifically I’m leaving you, this house and our life together. I have to. I don’t know any other way to say it. I hope you don’t think me insensitive but I know that your anger is inevitable. We’ve been through so much and I have stuck by you through the worst of it, but my mental health is calling out for a respite, for relief.
My head aches with thoughts of you. Not just thoughts of the man you used to be but the couple we once were. Powerful, shatterproof… almost unstoppable. But the aching needs to cease and my mind needs to become peaceful again.
With everything that has happened at school I’m sure you understand why I’m doing this, why I’m moving out. I can’t risk the stigma attached to you having an effect on our son. I’m doing this to avoid malicious whispers and distorted facts. I had a choice to make: stand by you or protect our son. I choose Ben. I’m sure you understand why.
Although this is farewell it is not goodbye. Please stay in touch, for Ben’s sake. There is no need to punish him for your mistakes.
Emma
The letter was heartfelt but with a cold undertone. I sympathised with Adam, I knew what it was like suddenly to lose everything. The question in this case, though, was why? Why did Adam and Emma’s marriage break down? What was the subject Emma was so afraid of becoming gossip? What had happened at Adam’s school? I was even more confused than I had been before.
I folded the letter neatly back into the album and carefully placed it back in the cupboard where I’d found it. I began to wonder why nobody had got in touch with Adam since I had taken over his life. Apart from Russ he had had no visitors, no phone calls, even the neighbours seemed uninterested in him.
I remembered the last page I’d read in the diary and decided it was time for another journey into Adam’s past. I got changed into a pair of tartan pyjama bottoms and crawled beneath the soft sheets of the four-poster bed. I drew my knees to my chest and balanced the diary on top.
2 August 2012
I am full of regret on this sweltering summer’s evening. If life came with a remote control the rewind button on mine would surely be forever broken due to overuse. I seem to have a constant need to reverse time and re-run events in my life that bring me shame. The heat and humidity make it hard for me to concentrate but I will try to recall this evening’s events with as much clarity as I can muster.
A month ago Emma casually mentioned a dinner party we had both been invited to. The hosts were a couple I had met on three occasions in total. Evie and Geoff are both professionals. They live in a large Victorian home with their two children, the youngest is the same age as Ben. Emma had met Evie at a parent and toddler event held weekly at the church hall and when I came home from work one evening I found my ears ringing with Emma’s admiration for her. It was easy to see she had been taken in by Evie.
I was running late on the evening of the dinner party due to a detention I was required to organise for a group of year tens who’d decided it was a great idea to deface a school wall with spray paint. When I came home it was clear that Emma was stressed. She stumbled down the stairs half-dressed as I stepped into the hallway.
“Have you seen my diamond earrings?” she asked, somewhat desperately.
“No, I thought you kept them in your jewellery box?”
“I took them out of there, don’t you remember? I wore them to our anniversary meal.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Never mind,” she interrupted, “just go and get dressed.”
It was clear she was in a frenzy, brought on by the desperate urge to impress her new friends. She would often become needy and eager for acceptance when she met new people; it was a need I never really understood but put down to her upbringing and the many years of watching her own mother behave in the same way. I absent-mindedly put on the nearest shirt I came across in the wardrobe. Emma entered the bedroom, adjusting a newly found diamond earring in her right ear.
“No, not that one,” she hissed, before reaching in front of me and grabbing a light blue Calvin Klein shirt with narrow stripes. I knew she had picked it for its designer label. I looked at her closely for the first time that evening.
“New dress?”
“Yes,” she said as she admired herself in the mirror.
“How much did it cost?”
“Oh, never mind that now.”
“Emma, we are new parents, we can’t afford luxuries like these.”
She shrugged. “I needed a new dress for tonight. It’s no big deal. Besides, you have your own extravagances,” she said sarcastically.
I chose to walk out of the room instead of answering her. As I checked on Ben the doorbell sounded and I made my way to the hallway to answer it. It was Emma’s mum, on babysitting duty.
“Hel-lo,” she sing-songed.
“Hi, Helen, thanks for doing this.”
“Oh, my pleasure,” she said cheerfully. “Where is the little mite?”
I gestured towards the living room and she waddled in that direction, pulling a small bag of sweets discreetly from her pocket as she pushed the door open. Emma and I have a strict no sweets policy and I sighed inwardly. This woman would not be told.
Emma came trotting downstairs, kissed her mum on the cheek and pulled me out of the front door. I could smell the sweet scent of her perfume as it mingled with the humid air; once again she had overdone it and I tried not to gag as the potent odour overwhelmed me.
I drove carefully, not wanting to upset her, and she laid down some ground rules for me.
“Now, as you know, Evie and Geoff don’t really respond well to sarcasm so I would avoid it at all costs.”
“No jokes… got it,” I said sarcastically. She ignored me and continued.
“Please don’t ask for the leftovers, and don’t talk with your mouth full. Plus you have this terrible habit of fidgeting with your cutlery between courses, don’t do that. Also, Lara and John will be there.”
“The lawyers?” I sighed loudly. Lara and John had even less of a sense of humour than our hosts, Evie and Geoff. The handful of times I have encountered them, they have gone on and on about the large Edwardian house they’re renovating. A subject that I would normally find interesting was made less so by them dragging it out through all three courses, plus coffee and mints. I wasn’t sure I could take much more of: “Oh, but you simply must install an antique roll top bath,” or, “A house is not a home without an orangery, I’m afraid.” It just seems pretentious to me and I knew from our first encounter that Emma and I are too different from them to slot easily into their world, something I knew my wife was secretly hoping to do.
I parked on the driveway outside Evie and Geoff’s monstrosity of a house and as I listened to our shoes crunch their way along the gravel driveway I had a sudden desire to flee. I had made it clear enough to Emma that I would rather spen
d my evenings with her and Ben, not at an oversized table desperately trying to make small talk with people obsessed with materialism, so what were we doing here?
We were greeted by Evie, pleasant and elegantly dressed. We followed her through the grand hallway, complete with overstuffed, red velvet armchairs and oil paintings of stern-looking women with distinctly male features. My feeling of dread increased.
We joined the rest of the party in the sitting room and the usual pleasantries were exchanged, false words and forced smiles. Eventually we sat down for the first course.
“Wine, Adam?” Geoff asked. “You’ll like this one, brought it all the way back from the French Riviera and kept in our wine cellar for the past few years. You can’t beat a good French red. Worth every penny.” His grin was almost manic.
I nodded in agreement. I know nothing about wine and don’t particularly enjoy it but I was trying to be polite. Emma gave me a stern look and once again I was reminded of the promise I’d made to her two months ago, the day she disappeared and abandoned our child. The day she discovered what I’d spent the best part of a year hiding from her. I looked at her and offered a small shrug, my way of saying I didn’t have much of a choice. As Emma’s eyes bored into mine Geoff’s voice droned on. The hostility between Emma and me was apparently lost on the others.
Geoff’s lesson on the origin of the red substance with which he had filled my glass to the brim was interrupted by his complaint that I had not yet sampled this magnificent specimen, this life-altering, pleasure-inducing grape juice that almost the entire table were raving about.
“Come on, Adam, don’t let a good red go to waste,” said Geoff, and as I looked up I realised I was being stared at by everyone. Was this my initiation? Did my admission into this secret society depend on my view of this ridiculously expensive wine?
They all continued to watch me intently. I had two options: drink the wine and break my promise to Emma or refuse to drink the wine and ruin Emma’s chances of being accepted by a group whose approval was obviously incredibly important to her. I decided to do what was best for her: I sipped the wine. I had only intended to drink a drop of it but throughout the night Geoff would give me unwelcome top ups and before I realised it I had drunk a few glasses.
The Life and Second Life of Charlie Brackwood (The Brackwood Series Book 2) Page 6