by J. C. Grey
I want to stay here like that, drinking him in, though I cannot see his features clearly. There is no light on the porch. Only the faint glow from the foyer provides illumination. His overcoat is open, and beneath I can see he is wearing a crumpled cotton jersey and jeans that look a little loose. He should have a scarf, I think. On a cold night in mid-winter, he should have a scarf. But his neck is bare; his hair brushes his collar, a little longer than I remember.
‘Can I come in?’ Marc asks hoarsely.
I take a breath—perhaps my first since I saw him standing here—and my hand curls around the edge of the door. Abruptly, I do not want him in the house. It is mine, I think. If I let him in, I will have to share its secrets. If I let him in, something bad will happen. If I let him in, I am relinquishing control. It is like the feeling I had all those weeks ago when Val came to the door. Does the house have more power over me than I realised?
‘What?’ he asks, reading my face. ‘What is it?’
His hands are on my shoulders, manoeuvring both of us inside. I want to shout no, but it is too late. Before I can react, a breath of wind catches the door and shuts it with a soft click behind us.
Under the hall light, I can see him and am shocked at the changes the past months have wrought. It is grief, but not just grief. The edges of him are harder, skin stretched tighter across bone, and where his mouth turned up, now it is a flat line. Loss is etched not just into his skin but his core. It is carved deep, and in his eyes burns a dark furious kind of fire.
It is as if he has suddenly figured out that life can be cruel as well as kind. The confidence he has always had in things working out well, just because they always have, has vanished.
Not too long ago, I started to believe that his charmed life would become mine. Instead, my train wreck has become his. This is power of sorts, I realise, but not the kind I want.
‘You look good, Em,’ he says. He lifts a hand to my face but drops it before he touches me.
I back away. ‘This is a mistake, Marc. You shouldn’t have come here.’
Marc throws back his head and a bitter laugh emerges. ‘What’s one more mistake?’
As his chest moves, I can see he’s lost weight … too much.
‘Mrs Saatchi didn’t do a good job with that shirt.’ I nod at the crumpled garment. He looks nothing like the slick executive I am used too.
‘She doesn’t come anymore. She abandoned me too.’ His tone is self-deprecating. ‘Sylvie stole her.’
‘I would have come back,’ I tell him. ‘Soon. I just need time. I told you. You shouldn’t have come.’
‘I gave you fucking time!’ he grates. ‘I don’t have more time to give.’
‘But I need—’
He cries out then; a howl of agony that seems to have boiled up from deep inside, ragged and terrible.
‘I don’t give a fuck about what you need, Em! I’m over trying to work out what it is. What about what I need? What about that? Does it ever cross your mind to think about what it is like to be me right now?’
In the face of this barrage—the like of which I’ve never heard from Marc—I take a step back. I am shaken, and then in denial, and then horrified by the truth of it.
How wrong I have been for so long. I have always thought the scales swung in his favour because of his affluence, but it has been the antithesis of the truth. I have always known he would move heaven and earth for me, had he the power to do so. That time, I think, has now ended.
‘You have your family,’ I start. ‘You could have gone to them.’
‘My family is you, Em. And … them.’ The roar drops to a whisper as it always does when he refers to those two little lost ones.
The reference to them scalds as it always does but perhaps not as fatally. The box I placed my grief in all those weeks ago for safekeeping, and tucked into the locked room, is back in my arms, but I am not ready to untie the ribbon and face what lies inside.
‘I’m sorry, Marc,’ I say and take his hand, for even I—with all my inadequacies—cannot remain untouched by his pain. ‘I’m sorry for all of it.’
He is compliant, as shaken by the past few minutes as I am. He does not resist as I lead him into the kitchen and make him sit at the table. When I pour two glasses of rich red wine and press one into his hands, he obediently sips from it.
Neither of us say anything as I prepare the lamb and rosemary soup. I remember that I had been thinking of him as I had roasted the meat that day. It was just days ago, yet seems an age. Even this evening seems to have lasted eons. Was it less than an hour ago that I read the message in the steamed-up mirror?
Louis, I think. Marc mustn’t know about you. He mustn’t know my secret. I stop stirring the soup and listen to the house but I can hear nothing except for the hiss of the gas flame, and the steady rain that has begun to fall again outside.
Marc glances up from his wine. ‘I didn’t think it would be like this,’ he says.
I nod, understanding. Those days after we met were so overwhelming, you think you will be forever carried along on the crest of that bubbling, frothing wave, forgetting what is at the end of the peak.
‘I don’t think I thought of it at all,’ I admit. ‘I wanted you irresistibly.’ That is true, even if there was an element of opportunism.
‘I mean the house,’ he says as I ladle soup into two deep bowls and bring them to the table.
It is then I realise I have no idea how he has found me—or even how he got through the padlocked gate.
January this year …
How rapidly things change. I never think too far ahead, but if I had I never would have seen this.
Standing in the newly decorated nursery, my arms looped under the vast mountain of belly, I am swaying as if to the twin heartbeats in my womb. I think of them, clinging to each other—to life—fragile yet strong, gathering to make the journey into this world.
Since Christmas, it has seemed like a time of gathering to me. This period before something else, immensely powerful in its own right, has proved mighty enough to have pushed all my other concerns to the fringes. I have not worked since the day at Brendan’s, more absorbed by what is happening inside than out.
I never thought it would be so, or that I could feel so content about it. I know it must be those nesting hormones. Marc has read about them, but I don’t need to. I am feeling it all—the sense that I am the protector of a tiny world of my own making, and I will defend its borders come what may.
Its capital is the nursery, created in the smaller of our spare bedrooms. It is still a decent size and on the quieter side of the building away from the street. Claire and I designed it together to replicate the feeling of being inside an egg, or what we thought that would be like. The walls are on the yolkier side of eggshell and billowing canopies curve the ceiling and corners. Pale stain is on the floorboards, and the accoutrements of nurseries—a change table, rocking chair, bookshelves and storage—match the boards.
Atop a cushiony rug, a modern double-cot takes centre stage. Marc has also read that twins should sleep together when they are small, and sometimes I can already see them there, heads close together, hand in hand.
A big mobile of bright yellow chicks dangles above the cot, still in the thick, sultry air. It is the height of a crushing summer now, but soon autumn’s fresh breezes will arrive, bringing with them new life. With the window open, the mobile will swing and sway, and the girls will watch it move with big, astonished dark eyes.
Last weekend, we went away, Marc and I, into the mountains where it was cooler. We wandered (in my case, waddled) through Leura and, later, Blackheath. I made myself look at the sign to Lithgow as though it was just a place that meant nothing. Marc insisted on buying a couple of ugly stuffed toys. We joke that they look like aliens. They are kind of funny, I suppose. But they are still ugly and I have tucked them away in a drawer. When he comes in tonight, he will release them from captivity. It is a game we play.
Since the nursery was
completed and despite Marc’s frequent protestations, I have been so busy around the apartment that poor Mrs Saatchi has started to think of herself as quite unnecessary. I have had enough energy for ten, and have reorganised every drawer, shelf and cupboard in the place. The ironing is done almost before the dryer has finished. The floor shines and the windows sparkle.
Marc yelled at me when he found me up a ladder the other day, cleaning the lights above the kitchen bench. He scooped me off and dumped me on the couch.
‘Don’t even think of doing it again,’ he says, wagging his finger. But what can he do to stop me? Nothing can touch me in this bubble. Why did I ever worry about work and our relationship and who I was supposed to be? About Yvette’s dislike of me? Now, I simply don’t care about anything beyond my tiny world. Without any effort, everything has worked out the way it was meant to be. Weirdly, I have never been happier. It’s a little bizarre considering how I fought this, but I have found a calling of sorts, a purpose. I can’t believe it’s just hormones.
The phone rings in the study, pricking my bubble. I do not really want to speak with anyone, and it will probably be for Marc. I walk down the hallway and across the living area where two great fans rotate slowly. The breeze feels wonderful on my warm skin.
In the study, I pick up the phone but whoever it was has already given up. Marc’s laptop is open. I have not snooped or spied for weeks; there has been no urge or reason to. But today, the lid is flipped up and it pings to announce a new email.
And there it is, in Marc’s inbox—the one thing I thought I had left far behind has found its way to my door.
Present day, night
‘Did you really think I didn’t know where you were?’ Marc tastes his soup. He seems a little surprised it is so rich and tasty. He goes back for more. I have not touched mine.
‘But for how long?’ I ask him, dumbfounded.
‘Weeks, longer.’ He shrugs.
‘Val,’ I say, trying to remember her surname. I give up. ‘The real estate agent in Lammermoor, the nearest village to here.’
‘I know who she is, but I contacted her, not the other way around.’
His eyes are on me and a small smile plays around his mouth as if he is daring me to erupt. Maybe I should. Perhaps it is what we need and what we have never had—a full-blown fight.
‘Then who?’ I think of Sally’s freckled open face, her uncle’s closed one. Maybe. I am still suspicious there is a plan afoot to extract money. The deli owner? Unlikely. The upholsterer? I had to give my name and address, but he seemed more interested in fabrics and buttons than me.
Marc taps my mobile, which is on the kitchen table.
‘It’s been on the whole time.’
‘You had me traced? Seriously?’
‘You’re my wife,’ he spits out. ‘You were upset. I didn’t know what you might do. I needed to know where you were and if you were all right, and I’d promised not to call in the cops, remember?’
‘You shouldn’t have done it.’
‘We’ve both done things we shouldn’t have.’
My growing anger is halted. I remember all those times I scrolled through his tablet and computer. Not because I was looking for anything in particular, but just because I felt a lack of control. Because I felt there was something I didn’t know and if I knew it, it would help me to survive.
Marc gets up and pours us both a hefty slug of wine, perhaps his way of telling me that we are in for a long night. We may yet have that fight.
‘If you’ve known where I am …’ I don’t finish the question but I don’t need to.
‘I promised you some time,’ he says simply, his black eyes on mine. ‘I kept my word.’
‘We never said how long,’ I mutter defensively.
‘Not in words but we both know that the deal was you would come back when you felt stronger. And you didn’t.’
I stare at the table. ‘I would have. Soon.’
The old fridge rattles and hums for a couple of minutes and then subsides into silence.
‘Em, I can be a patient man, but you would try the patience of a saint.’
‘You knew life with me wouldn’t be easy.’
His lips part to let out a mirthless laugh. ‘Is that your only excuse? That you’re high-maintenance?’
I look around the room, hunting for words that will capture my inadequacy and hopelessness and uneasiness in my own skin. My eyes alight on the small bundles of herbs stuffed into glass jars along the window ledge.
‘They’re from the garden,’ I tell him in a voice that sounds rather rusty. He swivels around to face where my finger points. ‘The rosemary and thyme and stuff. I’ve spent time in the garden, and in the house. I needed to be on my own here to find … something.’
I sound rambling and incoherent, but perhaps some of what I’ve said has made sense because this time he doesn’t snort with disbelief.
‘Find what? Peace?’
‘Yes. Maybe more than that. I don’t know.’ I shift uneasily, unused to having these kinds of conversations. ‘You said the house surprised you.’
‘It’s not your natural habitat.’
You’re wrong! I want to say, disappointed at the inference that I don’t belong here. For most of our time together he has been very astute in judging what lies beneath.
‘Although I could be wrong.’ His chair scrapes the floor as he pushes it back and stands. Without consulting me, he wanders through the kitchen, looking up at the burnished copper pots and around at the unruly garden cuttings stuffed into bottles and vases.
‘Did you cut the chain on the gate?’ I ask.
He shakes his head, and looks down ruefully at his scuffed shoes. ‘I came over the wall. The car is parked out in the lane.’
Before I can guess his next move, he is moving through the double doors into the adjoining dining room where my sketches of the garden and notes are spread all over with the photographs I’ve had printed.
It’s too late to stop him but I follow and lurk near the door, watching as he stops at the table and begins to look through the mess.
‘Is this yours?’ He holds up the plan of the front garden, probably the most finished.
I nod and fold my arms around my waist.
Next he picks up the prints of the vintage outfits.
‘I’m writing a blog,’ I say. ‘About fashion … and stuff. I’m thinking about starting my own website.’ I take a breath. ‘I am starting my own website to help women with their wardrobes and interior design, perhaps cooking and gardening too.’
I know he won’t laugh at me but I’m not expecting his complete confidence in my partly formed plans, either. He surprises me. ‘Good. You have incredible instincts when it comes to style.’ He looks around. ‘The real estate woman says you plan to make some changes to the house.’
‘Oh, nothing much. I don’t have the money. Maybe some paint and there are some repairs to be done if I can get tradesmen out here. When did you speak to Val?’
He glances up at me but doesn’t say anything. That smile, the not-so-nice one, is playing around his lips again. It only takes me a second to connect Marc and the superannuation fund that owns the house.
‘It’s you, isn’t it? Lammermoor House belongs to you.’
He is about to answer when from upstairs comes an ominous creaking sound, a second or two of portentous silence and then a crash that shakes the house and has the dining room chandelier quivering wildly.
I rush from the room, ignoring Marc’s call to wait, and fly up the stairs through a cloud of dust to find that the old armoire along the landing wall has come toppling down in a mess of shattered wood and glass.
And behind it, leading upwards towards the attic, is a set of steps.
Nineteen
February this year …
Do you know what I did? Nothing, apart from delete the email I’d found in Marc’s inbox. I did not open it. I pretended I did not know that name. I told myself I had not seen it, that it
had never happened.
It is a more extreme version of a child closing her eyes and believing no one can see her. Don’t acknowledge it and it doesn’t exist. And as time goes on and nothing happens you can almost believe it is true. Almost.
In any case I have more immediate concerns, namely Yvette’s offer to stay with us for a month after the girls are born to ‘help out’, which she makes following a casual lunch at the apartment to celebrate Marc’s thirty-third birthday.
Despite my blithe outlook, a threat like this is not to be ignored and, as Marc is currently outside on the balcony talking about the new rugby season with his father, I will have to nip this in the bud myself.
‘You don’t have anyone, Emerald,’ Yvette points out, an expression of kindly concern on her face. ‘And I’m worried you’re not coping.’
I am sprawled on the couch in the apartment, my belly rising up like Mount Vesuvius between us, eating dark chocolate. For the last few weeks, I have had a craving for the stuff. Dr Chan is pleased I have put on a few kilos in the last couple of months. I am glad to be carrying most of it out front and not on my bum.
‘I have Marc,’ I point out. Your firstborn. Ha!
Yvette waves her hand impatiently as she would at a mosquito. ‘You can’t expect him to drop everything to deal with this. Do you know how important he is? How much they rely on him? You will have to pull your weight, dear.’
As she says ‘weight’, she frowns at my belly. I want to tell her it is their fault, not mine.
‘I think Marc plans to become a househusband,’ I say airily, feeling the urge to stir the pot. ‘I may have to become the breadwinner.’
‘With what?’ The faux concern is forgotten and her voice drips acid. ‘Your melons?’
As goofy as it was, I knew she wouldn’t approve of the melon ad. Fortunately, the sharpness of her tone cuts through the rugby rumble and Marc is immediately there beside me. I give him a square of chocolate and a beatific smile, happy to hand off his mother for him to deal with now that I am pretty sure she has dropped the idea of being an unwanted house guest.