Look What You Made Me Do

by Nikki Smith

  ‘What do you think Paul would say if he knew?’ she asks quietly. I look at her and I know she can see the question that’s a plea in my eyes. ‘I won’t say anything to him. Not yet, anyway, but you should have another think about what you want to do with the business. Perhaps this is what you needed to hear to convince you to change your mind.’

  MONDAY

  Caroline

  I hadn’t slept well after seeing Jo yesterday, lying still in the dark last night so as not to wake Rob. I tell myself that I didn’t have a choice. What my husband will do if he doesn’t get what he wants would be so much worse than anything I could say to her.

  At the moment he’s in the bath, an evening routine after work that normally takes him between forty-five minutes and an hour, his damp towels discarded in a pile on the floor for me to pick up after he’s finished. Each one of his footsteps around the bedroom had echoed like the beat of a drum, marking the end of a temporary stay of execution. I’m praying my conversation will make Jo change her mind. If he thinks he’s going to get the money he might leave her alone.

  I’ve come out to the greenhouse at the end of our garden. We’d inherited it when we moved in, a small, metal-framed relic from the nineteen-eighties, the bottom of the panes of glass green with mould, the crazy-paving tiles it sits on chipped around the edges. He’d seen the way I’d looked at it and had said we needed to get rid of it, but after I’d shrugged my shoulders and agreed, he hadn’t bothered to go to the trouble of removing it. He’d have needed to pay to get someone in and he only takes something away if he knows I want it. He doesn’t know how much time I spend in here whenever he’s out, even in the winter. How much I love the smell of compost, of tomato plants, of things growing. It’s a small sanctuary away from the house and I’m very careful to make sure he doesn’t realise how much it means to me.

  If he knows I’m out here he’ll stare at me through the kitchen window. He thinks he can see me, but he can’t. He only sees what he wants to; his wife wearing the same T-shirt she’s had for the past ten years, the one that has a hole in the sleeve and faded stains of various colours down one side. His wife whose hands tremble with a combination of excitement and fear when she opens the door to come out here, who has to triple check the kitchen is clean and tidy so there isn’t a reason for her to be called back. He doesn’t see the person who creates new life whilst she’s in this place. The person who plants cucumber seeds in small pots and waters them, waiting until they start to grow. He doesn’t see how good I am at watching over things, waiting patiently when others would have given up a long time before. I’ve learned that sometimes even when there appears to be no hope, things will find a way to survive against the odds.

  Dad and I had used to exchange plant cuttings. Over the years I’d propagated tiny shoots from his hydrangeas, rhododendrons and azaleas which are now growing in our flowerbeds. His hydrangeas had changed colour from pink to blue when I’d planted them in our garden. He’d told me it was due to the acidity in our soil and I’d wondered if part of Rob’s personality had somehow permeated into the ground itself in the years we’d lived here. I think Dad had known how much I like being out here. My little greenhouse is about a tenth of the size of his, but he’d seen I had a talent for nurturing things, for making them grow. I think he’d hoped I’d be able to do the same thing with Rob. But I’d failed. I hadn’t been able to find whatever is required to make him flourish.

  I don’t want to admit it, but anything I’d hoped to be able to cultivate in him died a long time ago. I’m left with a handful of withered branches that will be dry and brittle inside if I snap them off; devoid of life. When I’d visited Dad in that last week, I think he’d known it, too. In those final couple of days when he’d declined so rapidly, he’d squeezed my hand, as if he’d been trying to tell me something, but Jo had leaned down first to try and hear what he was whispering and I’d missed my chance. I’d been so desperate for her to leave us on our own, just for two minutes, but she hadn’t. She’d repeated his words, saying he’d asked to ‘Go now, please,’ but I don’t think that’s what he’d meant at all. He’d opened his eyes a fraction and had looked straight at me when she’d said it, as if it had been an instruction.

  I glance at my watch. I’ve been in here twenty-five minutes. I pull off my gardening gloves and put them on the wooden rack next to the plastic flower pots. I don’t want to be in here too long in case he thinks I’m enjoying myself. I slide open the door, the metal frame catching on the runners. The aluminium has corroded and brown speckled spots cover the silver surface, like lichen, nature working to reclaim its own. I walk back over the lawn to the kitchen, hesitating in the last patch of evening sun that lights up the grass, a tiny island of warmth amidst the encroaching shadows. I shut the back door into the kitchen quietly, pull off my shoes and hover at the bottom of the stairs, listening, but there’s only silence.

  He doesn’t come downstairs until later, my greenhouse now a blurred outline in the darkness that brushes against the window. He pulls the cord to lower the Roman blinds and I have an urge to stop him, to rip them open so I can see out and breathe, but I hold myself back, feeling my stomach get heavier as the material descends inch by inch, trapping me inside the room. He pours himself a large whisky and stands in front of me, running his hand over his beard. The anticipation of what he’s going to say is so intense I can almost see it shimmering above his glass. I turn away from him to open a cupboard, pulling out a tumbler that I fill with water, swallowing it in large gulps.

  ‘You really think Jo’s going to agree to sell?’ he asks.

  I hesitate. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why the sudden change of heart?’ He narrows his eyes as he looks at me.

  ‘Paul thinks she should.’

  ‘So, no need for me to visit?’

  I’m not sure how to answer, whether this is a trick question and I’ll end up with the contents of his glass in my eyes, the sting of alcohol mixing with my tears. ‘No,’ I reply.

  ‘One of us needs to go at some point,’ he says.

  ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘So you can graffiti her car again? Threatening her isn’t going to make her sell it any quicker.’

  He frowns. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Someone spray-painted the side of her car.’

  ‘I haven’t been near her car.’ He stares at me, a muscle on his cheek twitching. I know immediately from his reaction that I’ve said the wrong thing and wish I could retract it. Stuff the words back inside my mouth and swallow them, even if they make me choke. He swills his glass round, the ice clinking against the side, and I brace myself. ‘Don’t ever tell me what to do,’ he adds quietly.

  I shiver, trying to keep very still, hoping I’ll provoke him less if I don’t move.

  He walks up to me and stands with his face a couple of centimetres away from mine, so close I can smell the whisky on his breath, before he reaches out and tries to tuck a piece of my hair behind my ear, but it hasn’t grown back long enough. I flinch, instinctively, and he runs one finger over my chin and smiles, his Adam’s apple moving up and down as he swallows, weighing up his options. ‘I make the decisions, Caroline. What’s best for both of us.’ He’s finding it harder to hide his animosity; it rises to the surface like bubbles in water. I stay completely silent, knowing better than to answer. It’s a game he plays, waiting for me to make the next move, revelling in the fact that he knows he’s physically stronger than me and I have nowhere to hide.

  He traces round my jawline with one finger. ‘I wonder why your father didn’t leave the business to your mother? Or to you?’ The way he asks the question makes me realise he already knows the answer and I feel sick.

  Rob puts his glass down on the counter and picks up the bottle to refill it, holding it underneath as he twists the cap off and empties in the last of the amber liquid. It’s the same thing Adam does, a habit he’d inherited from his father without even realising, and I wonder how many other things he’s picked up ove
r the years. Whether he’ll ever be able to forget some of the things he’s witnessed.

  ‘Let’s hope Jo doesn’t need too much time to think it over.’ He smiles as he leans over and kisses me, the whisky tasting sour on my lips, before walking off into the sitting room. I stand very still as I hear him switch on the television until I’m quite sure he’s not coming back. Then I refill the ice cube tray that he’s left on the counter with water and carry it over to the freezer, being careful not to spill it as I shut it inside.

  I pick up the empty bottle and open the cupboard to put it in the bin. Talisker. His favourite brand, unchanged from when I’d met him twenty years ago. My husband rarely changes his habits. Jo said he’d been drinking whisky that night, too. That she could smell it on him when he’d reached over and tried to slide his hand under the blanket she’d tucked around her legs as she’d sat on the sofa. She’d been ill then, so pitifully thin that she’d begun to resemble an old woman, her body shrinking in on itself, her eyes hollow, her collar bones jutting out from beneath her skin. She had repulsed me.

  I’d thought she’d done it to recapture our attention that had no longer focused on her every mouthful, snippets of time we’d grabbed hold of to try to establish some normality in our lives, discovering it was impossible to spend years in a heightened state of terror. I’d assumed she’d lied, invented falsehoods that had burned like a bonfire, so bright that no one could have failed to look anywhere other than in her direction. I’d told her I hadn’t believed her, but I wish she knew how many days since then I’ve wondered about what would have happened if I had.

  I saw you today. You were coming out of Sainsbury’s just as I was going inside. I almost didn’t recognise you. At first, I didn’t think you’d seen me as you turned your face away, headed in the opposite direction, but I called out and you looked round, my voice carrying across the asphalt, above the sound of the cars in the car park. I smiled and you walked over. You talked about work and I listened to the words come out of your mouth, each one holding my attention to begin with, as light as whipped cream, wishing I was on my own so you’d be like how you are when we’re in your car. But the more you talked, the heavier your words became, as if they’d been caught in a rainstorm, weighed down, soggy and unattractive. You talked about what you were doing over the weekend with your family, that the weather was going to be too hot and you didn’t look at me properly, not once. Your eyes slid away whenever mine tried to reach you. And in the way that happens when things fall apart, I suddenly saw the imperfections I hadn’t noticed before. The tiny yellow stain on the collar of your shirt. The way you couldn’t keep still, putting your hand in the back of your jeans as you looked across the car park, desperately searching for the first pause in the conversation to use as an opportunity to get away. Your sharp canines, too white and shiny as you smiled when my dad thanked you for giving me a lift in the morning, while you replied it was the least you could do. Then you said you had to leave, and my heart shrunk. I felt more invisible than if you’d never seen me at all.

  TUESDAY

  Jo

  I run my hand over my stomach this morning as I lie in bed, remembering the flutters that had started like butterflies’ wings beneath my skin when I’d discovered I was pregnant with Livvi and Grace, pretending the gurgles I can feel now are the same thing. I know they aren’t, but if I shut my eyes, I can almost convince myself, like a child at Christmas, believing that shape beneath the wrapping paper is exactly what I want it to be.

  I know I’m going to have to tell Paul and the longer I leave it, the harder it’s going to be. Part of me wonders if it’s the only thing that’s keeping him here, whether as soon as I tell him it’ll cut the fragile thread that’s holding us together, giving him the reason he’s been looking for to walk away. But more than that, I know a confession will turn the printed black words in the letter that’s been sitting for over a week in my jacket pocket, the ones I’ve reread multiple times, into a permanent reality. Premature ovarian failure. Something I’m refusing to admit to myself. I’d been ambivalent about having another child, despite Paul’s enthusiasm, until I’d been told that I couldn’t have one. And even now, I live in futile hope that my body is still able to do something that the doctor has told me it can’t, an unwillingness to accept the truth.

  Now Caroline knows I’m not pregnant, I don’t have a choice. Perhaps it’s a good thing she found out. Her threat forces me to admit it now rather than wait for Paul to find out, the failure of my stomach to fill out into a familiar bump a giveaway sign that things aren’t as they should be. I thought over the past couple of years my sister and I had grown closer, but I was naive. She’s still the same person I grew up with. The one who has inherited my mother’s genes, a need to create the illusion of perfection. I presume that’s why she wants me to sell the business. The money will simply add to the pile she and Rob already have. Another car. A new Aga. I should have asked her what’s next on the list. And whether the loss of our complicated relationship is worth it.

  Paul is already up, despite the early hour. He says he’s got a lot to do, but I don’t know if I believe anything he says anymore. I’d felt him get out of bed several times last night; our mattress rising and then sinking again each time, careful not to stray into the cool area of sheet between us. I hear the tap turn on in the bathroom, the sound of running water tells me he’s cleaning his teeth, habits ingrained into familiarity over the many years we’ve been together. I roll over and press the screen of his phone that he’s left lying on his bedside table. The message from the unknown number has been deleted but he’s posted something in his calendar for today: Meeting. 1 p.m.

  I walk out of the office, telling Alice I’m going to see a client, disappearing before she has a chance to tell me I haven’t finished the budget figures I’d promised to get to her earlier for the monthly reports. I run my hand over the paint as I close the driver’s door of my car. It feels smooth under my fingertips; no rough edges betraying where the patch has been resprayed. I wonder how they’ve managed to do that – seamlessly blending the old and the new, no trace left of what was there before. I bend down to look at it from different angles, convinced I’ll still be able to see an outline of the letters that are imprinted permanently in my head, but there’s nothing apart from a plain blue panel in front of me.

  I stop at a set of traffic lights in town as the green man flashes; a girl who looks like Grace did when she was younger crosses the road in front of me holding her mother’s hand, her blonde hair cascading down the back of her T-shirt from beneath a sun hat. We’ve found her sleepwalking twice in the last week. The first time I’d woken to find her standing at the bottom of our bed, staring at me. I’d let out a shriek before realising she wasn’t actually awake. Last night Paul said he’d discovered her in the kitchen again, her hands pressed up against the back door, staring out silently into the darkness through the glass. He told me he’d taken the key out of the lock, hanging it up on a hook on the wall out of her reach. I’d asked her about it at breakfast but she’d said she didn’t remember. She’s got her first session with the counsellor today and I hope it helps resolve whatever is bothering her more successfully than either Paul or I have managed to. She hadn’t mentioned it when I’d dropped her off at school. I don’t think she’d realised I’d got an email to tell me it was happening.

  I turn into our road and drive past our house, checking his car is in the drive before pulling into a space by the kerb; close enough to be able to see the entrance to our driveway. I switch off the engine after winding down the passenger window in an attempt to let in some air but outside is just as hot. I check my watch. Twelve forty-five. I tell myself it’s better to know. The constant wondering makes me feel like a hamster running round on a wheel, never getting anywhere. I turn off the radio, not able to bear listening to the presenter’s inane chatter on top of the thoughts whirling around inside my head.

  At twelve-fifty I watch as Anna walks out of her driveway
and steps onto the pavement, hesitating as she looks across at our house. The air around me tightens, the heat wrapping itself around my face so I can’t breathe. Something in my chest falls away and I have to hold myself back from getting out of the car. I imagine putting my hands round her throat, her eyes widening, the fine lines at the corners wrinkling into deep creases as I squeeze.

  She crosses the road, making no attempt to hurry, and I stare at her so intently that I can’t believe she doesn’t feel me watching her. She suddenly turns to her right, away from our house, heading down the road to where I can now see Andy’s car is parked, gets inside and drives away. I let out my breath that I hadn’t realised I’d been holding up until that moment. My stomach feels heavy, filled with an unexpected weight, and I wonder if part of me had been hoping she’d been going to meet Paul. At least then I’d have had an excuse to justify my behaviour.

  I fish around in my handbag to find a tissue to clean my sunglasses before I head back to the office. As I look up, I catch a glimpse of a man in jeans and a white T-shirt disappearing into our driveway. I hesitate for a moment, unsure whether to follow him, but tell myself I’m being paranoid. Paul is entitled to some privacy to see his clients. It’s me that can’t be trusted. As I turn the engine back on and pull away, I try to ignore the voice that tells me I can’t remember the last time Paul had a client visit him at home, he always goes to them. It’s not until I’m sitting back at my desk, Alice listing off the things I’m supposed to be doing this afternoon, that I realise the man seemed vaguely familiar.

  I finish work later than usual; Alice has already left by the time I’m ready to go. I glance through the open door of Caroline’s room; she hasn’t been in today and I wonder if she’s really ill, as she’d claimed when she’d spoken to Alice, or whether she just hadn’t wanted to face me. I unlock Dad’s office and turn on the light. His bookcase is empty now; everything packed away into boxes that have been put away in the storage cupboard here or taken home, shoved onto the shelves in Paul’s office until he gets a chance to put them in the loft. I’m struck by how small it feels, almost as if it expanded to fit his things and his personality, shrinking when it realised he was no longer coming back.