by J. C. Grey
‘That’s not … shit!’ Marc sits down suddenly, and drops his head wearily into his hands. ‘I don’t know what we’re doing.’
A few months ago, the concept of Marc being unsure of anything would have scared me almost more than anything. If he didn’t know, who was left to steer the ship? But, now, somehow, it is heartening that he can be as uncertain as anyone.
‘We’re having a fight. We should have had one a long time ago.’ I don’t say it, but I think that when I am cornered and can’t run I am more of a scrapper than Marc, whose charm has worked so well, he’s never had to fight dirty for anything.
He looks up and gives a tired smile. ‘Maybe, but can we call a truce for now? I’m too tired to go another round. And it’s bloody cold.’
I glance at the oven clock. It is after one. We have been fighting for more than an hour. Even though my blood is up, my nerves are humming and I want to slug it out until we have a resolution, I too am shattered.
‘You can have the couch,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll take the chaise.’
I can’t imagine I will sleep, not after everything that has happened tonight—not just Marc’s arrival and our explosive confrontation, but the words written in steam and the discovery of the door to the attic. How can so much have happened in the space of six hours when so many days have drifted past almost unnoticed while I’ve been in this house?
It is only as I rise from the table and return his jacket to him that I realise how utterly dog-tired I am. I direct Marc to the powder room and, when he has finished, give my teeth a cursory brush.
‘Goodnight,’ Marc says when we are in our respective beds and the lamp is out. Even now, after months apart and revelations we may never recover from, it seems unnatural to sleep apart, but it would be too easy to let sex heal our cuts and grazes, while the real wound festers untreated.
‘Night,’ I reply, my eyes wide open though my brain is fried.
It will be a long night, and what tomorrow will bring I cannot imagine.
April this year …
Marc is working from home with occasional trips into the office for meetings, usually when he knows that Claire or Brendan will be dropping by. Each time I suggest that he returns to his usual routine, he makes some excuse. The truth, that he dares not leave me alone, remains unspoken.
After a while, I stop suggesting he go back to the office full-time, and accept that I am a child, to be watched and supervised. I get up at seven each day, and shower and dress, not because I feel like it but because Marc will worry less if I have a routine. I have done such great harm and feel such immense guilt, it is the least I can do.
I still cannot explain what happened the day I almost went over the edge. Haltingly, I have tried to tell Marc this once or twice. He says he believes me, but still he watches me for any further signs of a death wish.
We are both trying in the only way we know to get through each day, but the longer-term future seems hazy, impossible to gauge. And the half-truths that it requires to get through the days are taking their toll. They simmer under the surface, pushed to boiling point by the fact that we are with each other almost constantly with no escape valve. When we socialise with Marc’s family or friends it is worse, as we are forced to lie to them as well as ourselves. We have even convinced them that the worst is over, and the fraud we are perpetuating makes us feel unbearably isolated.
I go along with it all, even though every instinct in me rebels against it, because it seems to be what Marc wants. I cannot countenance that he is as lost as I; I think he must have a strategy in mind to get us through this, that if we quietly endure somehow we will survive.
Once, he asks me if I want to talk to a counsellor, but I refuse as I think he already knew I would. A few days later, I relent to Marc’s suggestions that we get away. A long-haul flight is out of the question, but we escape showery Sydney, flying north to Darwin like migrating birds for the winter.
If either of us hopes it will somehow break the circuit, we are disappointed. It brings neither the collapse I am dreading, nor the coming together I suspect Marc is hoping for. We wander the streets and the harbour foreshore, hand in hand and a million miles apart. Over casual lunches and smart cocktails, we smile and share observations as though we are tourists forced to share the same bus. At night, the vast bed in our huge suite only emphasises the growing gulf between us.
We return after four days with tans, small gifts for family and friends, and heavy hearts, and it feels like either the end of our beginning—or the beginning of our end.
Twenty-two
Present day, early morning
‘Are you awake?’ I murmur, knowing he is, having sensed the cadence of his breathing change some time ago.
‘Yes.’
I think we both move towards each other at the same time and then, naked, he is carrying me the couple of metres from the chaise to the long, deep couch where my sheets now carry his scent.
‘This is a bad idea,’ I murmur, looking up at him.
‘We should stop then.’ And he does, waiting, sitting on the edge of the couch next to me. In the dark, his eyes glitter and his jaw is tense. He is used to taking command, but now he is saying that the next move is mine—my decision, my responsibility, as much as his.
‘You are my husband.’
‘I am.’ He strokes the hair back from my face.
‘And I’m your wife.’
‘Are you?’
Am I? I search his face, see myself mirrored in his eyes, but the reflection provides no answers.
‘I can be your lover,’ I say. It is honest at least, even if it is hurtful. ‘Can that be enough for now?’
His face is grave. ‘I want more, Em. I want everything.’ But his fingers are moving in my hair and stroking my face.
All I can think is that, despite everything—my unsavoury history, the grubby little blackmail attempts, his disillusionment at my lack of backbone—he still wants me, at least in bed. As I desire him. But too much has been said this night for us to succumb to sex without a stab at honesty.
So, I tell him, in my halting way. ‘I don’t think I’m ready to be the wife you want even though I do love you, Marc, even if it doesn’t seem like it—’
Leaning his forehead against mine, he sighs. ‘The wife I want is the best wife you can be. That’s all. I won’t settle for less than that, Em. I won’t let you settle for less.’
He puts his mouth to mine, almost tentatively. It feels strange, this uncertainty. In bed, we have always been instinctive, sure. There was never that awkward clash of limbs and noses, the nervous laughter or questions. How was it for you? From the start our bodies seemed to know each other, as though we had been lovers in some previous life and our physical selves still bore the imprint of the other’s flesh long after our memories had been wiped clean.
I realise, with shock, how long it is since we have kissed, longer still since we’ve made love. We move in slow motion, sliding against each other, rediscovering the sensation of skin against skin, of hard against soft, of throaty moans and sensual, senseless words.
We are side by side on the big couch, legs tangled, his hands on my hip and back and mine in his hair. The steps of this erotic dance are languorous and known only to us, and continue on forever it seems. The seconds, minutes and hours slow to meet us, slow almost to a standstill. And finally, as delight seizes us in its relentless grip, he is inside me and we are one.
April this year …
The night of Brendan’s show is here. I am dreading being on display. In deference to me, to us, he has delayed it for as long as he can. But the gallery and his agent have exhausted their patience. I think Marc has asked Brendan whether we need to be here and, of course, the answer is yes. Part of me wishes he didn’t mollycoddle me; the other half just wishes he could make the world go away.
Claire has come over to help me dress; it is a new creation inspired by the works on display, a diaphanous gown, fragile yet fiery, Grecian in style, and j
ust sheer enough to suggest at the shadows beneath.
I have lost weight; my collarbones and shoulders are more pronounced. Not quite bony, but I am down to the last layer of flesh. She makes me dust on some gold body power to suggest more than there is. My hair is loose, brushed to a pale red sheen, and my eyes and lashes are dramatically dark. A large amber band wraps around my upper arm.
‘You look like a pagan high priestess,’ Marc says, scrutinising me. I’m not too sure if that’s a compliment. The word pagan conjures up images of people with dirty hair and bad teeth. But Claire beams in pleasure.
He turns to my friend, who is in an ice-blue satin cocktail dress with a cinched waist and flared skirt. ‘Claire, you look as pretty as a picture. Ready to go?’
The show seems to have attracted more of a football crowd than a gathering of art aficionados, both in numbers and volume. I baulk at the door, telling Marc and Claire that I need a minute before fleeing to the bathroom. Locking the door, I stare at myself in the mirror. All I can see is a tall, willowy woman in a gorgeous gown. I don’t feel like me. I don’t feel like anyone. Even the rebelliousness, the prickliness that used to illuminate my eyes has been extinguished. They are a flat, dull green. Lifeless.
But I can act. I’ve been doing it all my life. As a seven-year-old, I convinced a concerned teacher that my lack of lunch was because I’d already eaten it, and ten years later, a police officer that I wasn’t homeless, just sleeping rough for a school project. In the last few days I’ve delivered the performance of my career. Tonight I just have a bigger audience.
‘Em?’ He knocks on the door.
I paste a casual smile on my face and open the door. ‘Let’s do it.’ I take his hand.
‘Sure?’
I do not meet his eyes. ‘Sure.’ Facing a room is nothing. We’ve done it a million times.
‘Em, it’s okay if you need a few more minutes.’
I shake my head and walk past him into the vast white room where sixteen huge photographic panels fill the walls with elemental visions of a woman who is me, or at least part of me. I pause as all heads turn my way and the volume drops. Then, a smattering of applause runs through the crowd. My smile widens, I pose for the camera flashes and suddenly Emerald emerges.
When, several minutes later, I turn back, Marc still lingers by the door. I raise a questioning brow and he comes to me.
‘I didn’t want to steal your thunder,’ he murmurs, his mouth near my ear. A shiver runs through me, and I am mortified. How can I still feel desire? I pull away from him as Brendan comes over, twittering and clasping his hands in glee.
‘Perfect timing, as always. Em, you look magnificent, and Marc … a fallen angel. Those cheekbones. Those eyes! One day, I’d like to get you on film.’
I give my husband closer attention. He is extraordinarily dashing in his navy suit and open-neck dark shirt. He too has lost weight, giving him a lean, hungry and dangerous look.
‘Thanks but no thanks,’ Marc laughs. ‘How’s it going?’
Brendan beckons us in closer. ‘The whispers are that the reviews will be rapturous. And my agent is juggling competing bids from some very influential collectors.’ He glances at Marc. ‘Are you sure you don’t want one? I can arrange favourable terms.’
At that moment, I am swept away by Brendan’s agent for an interview with the feature writer of a daily newspaper so I don’t hear Marc’s response. My grilling about what it means to be the muse of a rising star of photography and the husband of the man who made the financial markets sexy takes about forty minutes. Clearly she has been well briefed as there is no mention of anything else.
When I am free once more, I turn and she is there, Daisy Davis, red talons gripping my husband’s arm as she hangs on every word. It’s so blatant it’s sickening. And she’s not the only one making eyes at my husband. Have these women no shame?
As irritation surges through me, I debate whether to stride across the room and smack the bitch in the face. But just then Marc turns towards me, and widens his eyes in the universal plea for assistance. Aware that people are watching, I take my time crossing the room towards my husband. I smile and introduce myself to Daisy, lifting the hand attached to my husband on the pretext of admiring her ring. She takes the hint and leaves shortly after.
‘Thank you,’ Marc murmurs when she’s gone. ‘She wasn’t getting the message.’
‘You need to be blunt. In that kind of situation, charm is your enemy.’
He inclines his head in acknowledgement.
It is exhausting but reassuring that we have performed so well. In fact, we get right to the end of the evening without a misstep. I am just congratulating myself when it happens.
We are in a group with multiple conversations going on. Marc’s arm is around my shoulders as he talks business to a man on his left. To my right, an old friend of Brendan’s is casting me admiring glances and trying to engage me in an esoteric conversation.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. You don’t have anything to drink. Let me get you something,’ the young man says. ‘Champagne?’
I smile at him, only half paying attention. ‘No, thanks,’ I tell him, smiling kindly. I put my hand on my belly. ‘I can’t drink at the moment. My babies are due—’
Abruptly, I stop, stunned. My face must have collapsed because the young guy looks at me with terror as though he has accidentally shot me. The only other person to have heard is Marc, but I am barely aware of him making our excuses quickly and firmly.
He turns me, his arm holding me up and forcing my legs to move across what seems like acres of gallery space, the crowd parting like the sea before us. We just make it into the lift before my world implodes, the dam breaks and I collapse screaming and sobbing in his arms as the agony of loss rips through me with the force of a hurricane.
I do not remember being bundled into the car or the journey home, and have only a vague recollection of being carried up to our apartment, shuddering with reaction, where Marc runs a hot shower and makes me sip fiery whisky. Even huddled in bed I am still shivering, and he curls his body around mine but still I shake.
Then the doorbell sounds, and Marc leaves the room. I hear hushed voices and then the doctor comes in. He speaks to me with kindness and concern, but I hear none of it. Marc holds my hand, there is a prick in my arm and then the tide comes in and sucks me under.
Present day, early morning
One moment, I am asleep. The next, I am thrust upwards into instant wakefulness. It leaves me gasping for breath with its shocking suddenness. I am not on the chaise and it takes a moment for me to orient myself.
A rough weight is heavy on my waist and breast. Marc’s right arm pins me down. His blond head is tucked into the nook between my head and shoulder; our legs are tangled together. His breath shivers across my skin, deep and steady.
Glad he is resting, I am content to lie quietly, watching the shadowy play of his eyelashes on his cheek, feeling the intimate weight of him and breathing in the heady scent of man and sex.
Our sexual reconciliation is probably the worst mistake we have made so far—and that is saying something—but maybe it can help us to navigate a way back that words cannot. The only thing I know is that it doesn’t feel wrong.
Why I am awake, I do not know. After our emotional and sexual exertions of last night, I should be as deeply asleep as Marc. Yet, for some reason I am wide awake, every sense on alert.
Upstairs, a door opens, creaking on its hinges. My thoughts turn from our warm nest on the wide, newly upholstered couch to the small door revealed by the destroyed armoire. Can I hear footfalls, or is it just my imagination conjuring the sound of steps on the stairs?
My contentment has vanished, and I can no longer relax. I have to know what is up there. I have to know what happened inside this house.
By increments, I disentangle myself from Marc’s clasp. At the last, I think that I have woken him. His eyes flutter open, he smiles blearily and then he slips back into sleep with murm
ured words too soft for me to make out. I slip my hand from his.
Even as I throw my robe around my shoulders, I am thinking I am a fool for leaving the security, however brief, of our warm tangle to go poking around in the dust and cobwebs of the attic on the hunt for a ghost.
But I have left so much undone in my life so far, abandoned so much of what I have started, I must see this through. If I can solve the mystery that has blighted this house and lay a small spirit to rest, it will be an achievement. Perhaps not one that you would put on a résumé, but the kind of quiet, uncelebrated success that counts far more.
When Marc wakes, it will be hard to resist his pleas for us to return to Sydney to work things out. I want to; I am nearly ready. But I have to do something first, and this is something only I can do.
On the way from the room, I glance at my phone. It is after six but this winter morning is a long time coming and all is in gloom. In the foyer, I turn on the lights but somehow the insipid glow just makes the house seem unusually sinister. Although my skin is still sleep-warm, I shiver.
Glancing back longingly at the drawing room, I consider curling up back next to my husband and forgetting about mysteries and ghosts until there is daylight and Marc’s reassuring presence to deflect the fear.
Coward! It is time to stand on my own two feet so I sigh and turn away from the room where Marc sleeps, and start silently up the stairs. At the top, the air is colder for some reason and my skin prickles with goosebumps. I stop myself from looking down. Instead, I pick my way carefully around the smashed wreck of the armoire, wishing I had thought to put on socks or shoes.
Moving towards the door, I am wondering why the armoire was placed across it when there is plenty of wall space to the left, when my robe snags on a splintered edge of timber. I stumble, losing my balance in the dark. My foot grazes a large shard of glass, splitting the skin. I hiss in pain as blood blooms, almost black in the dim light. Damn it!