Her Greatest Mistake

by Sarah Simpson

  ‘Sure. I’m sorry, Eve.’ Turning and reaching for the bedroom door, she looked back at me; for the first time I could recall, she was obviously struggling to find the words she needed. My incongruent mood must have put her on edge. ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘Oh, Sam, for what? None of this is your doing. Don’t you dare apologise. I couldn’t love and appreciate you more than I do. I know it’s a bit sloppy, but, seriously, what would I do without you?’

  I’m sure I saw her eyes sparkle with tears. ‘I’m still sorry,’ she said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For you feeling like you say.’ She shrugged, her curled tresses falling over her silvery-silk-covered shoulder. ‘Today. I wanted you to be happy. I didn’t ever want it to be like this for you.’ She blew me a heartfelt kiss before leaving the room.

  I forced back the threatening tears.

  I couldn’t tell Sam; she’d probably think me silly. But I couldn’t get your text out of my mind. So unusually insensitive, uncaring. Not Gregg-like. I’d tried to call you on several occasions. Left a couple of voicemails you didn’t return. Around 23.00, you texted me.

  Stop calling my mobile. I’m busy. Don’t appreciate being checked on. Get some sleep. I need you to look your best tomorrow.

  Then, as an afterthought, a following text with a single X. I didn’t reply. I called Sam, but it diverted to voicemail. The feeling in my stomach was new. The cold text played on my mind. Made me question other events. Late nights. Unanswered calls. Cancelled arrangements. Guarded phone calls. But it was too late, so much already invested. So many people I cared about, caught up and expecting. I was probably overreacting, an out-of-character text, nothing more. Stop overthinking things, I chastised myself. But the feeling stirred deep within my gut.

  The day happened. Uneventful, lots of expense, beautiful floral displays and delectable food. Witty speeches and much jubilant conversation. Normal. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t feel relaxed, happy. I dutifully beamed but inside I was peculiarly anaesthetised. The day took place within a glass dome; I kept wishing someone would shake it up, change the scene. No amount of self-talking could lift the unsettling tizzy beneath my ribcage. It was a relief when it was all over. When the residual onlookers dwindled away, I gathered my discarded bouquet of white lilies. I hate white lilies; they remind me of death. But they’re a favourite of yours; you insisted I chose them.

  I retreated for the night. Exhausted by the façade. Angry with myself. Heartbroken, I had missed my big day. What was wrong with me? Everyone else was happy.

  *

  Two months later

  Just another tool in your box, wasn’t I? You are perfect, resonates through my mind. You forgot to add, ‘for my purpose’. A befitting piece of equipment for senior partnership conditions. Eventually, I would learn your intentions more often than not became your reality. But you had so many other admirable traits. Sucker. I always saw more good than bad. On reflection, the signs were unmistakable, except if you’re not looking, you don’t see. Once you look, it’s obvious. What comes next is judgment. An arrogant human response – we think we know what we would do in the circumstance. But we truly never do.

  The first flick of the switch. A deliberate shift in the relationship.

  You glared at me across the opulent Georgian hotel room. The word exasperation penned across your face. A new word I hadn’t seen before, or had I simply not noticed? With folded arms, you tipped back against the door. What was your problem? A thick vapour of glacial air filled the room. You observed me awkwardly applying antiseptic spray-on plaster to my heel.

  ‘Not sure why I’m bothering with this. Talk about inadequate. Still, hopefully it will suffice,’ I attempted to engage you. ‘You wouldn’t think something so silly could be so painful. So much yucky fluid. Eew. Did you see the state of my sock yesterday? Had to throw it. Rank.’ All falling on deaf ears.

  You sighed. ‘I did say to wear your boots in. But you don’t ever listen, can’t be told,’ you snapped. ‘It’s your own fault. What did you expect, for Christ’s sake, with new boots? Sometimes, Eve, your lack of thought is flabbergasting. There’s not a chance we’re backing out of today. You do realise the importance of this weekend? Talk about picking your times. Our first corporate weekend. Christ!’ You flicked your mobile to check the time. ‘We need to leave. Now. You’re making us late.’

  You did advise me to wear my boots in; I should have. Best intentions and all that. The shadow of a ten-year-old crawled over me. I shifted my seat on the bed in a befitting manner. Why did my intentions not come to fruition? Badly organised, you advised me often. I preferred too carefree; it’s less harsh.

  ‘You did, but I forgot. No, actually, I ran out of time. Taking on the extra work case didn’t help, probably. Do you have any proper plasters?’ I smiled, despite not feeling very happy with your ‘I told you so’ comments.

  You sniggered. ‘A new case. If that’s what you call it. You shouldn’t have bothered; it’s not as if it offers you any gains. Waste of your and now our time.’ Ouch, how could you? You knew how sad this particular case was.

  ‘It’s not such a big deal, you know. It’s just a blister. A blinking, big fat one, yes, but that’s all it is.’ Talk about blowing things out of proportion. ‘And I do appreciate how important this weekend is for you. I won’t let you down. I just need to sort this, then I’ll be with you.’

  ‘Do you, though? Do you appreciate how influential some of these guys are?’ You gestured at the door. ‘Not sure you do. I’m not sure you even care, considering your behaviour.’ You strode towards your side of the wardrobe. Everything perfectly hung, unlike my jumbled side.

  ‘Yes, I do, that’s not fair,’ I say. ‘But it’s supposed to be fun too. Isn’t it? I didn’t realise it was a resilience test. It’s not like I’ve broken my leg. I’ll be good to go once I’ve expertly patched this up.’

  You snatched at the pristine chocolate leather washbag. Of course, you’d have plasters. Always prepared. Strange place to keep a washbag. Then, I remembered how cross you were as someone had soaked the bottom of the bag. ‘Probably the cleaner’, you’d said. Brain-dead, apparently. You launched the unopened packet of plasters. To me or at me? I didn’t look up.

  ‘Thank you,’ I offered.

  As I fumbled to open the new box, your eyes burned through me. A child watched to ensure they appreciate their wrong. A rush of emotion sidled over me. Tired from the all-embracing previous day’s walking. Forced conversation. Washed down by an exceptionally drunken night. With a few hours of tossing and turning and too many spectre-like visits to the bathroom. God, I wished you’d just leave.

  How would Sam respond? She’d probably hurl her boot at you, tell you to go on your sodding walk, without her. I daren’t tell her; this would go with the other new filed-away confidential experiences. Their dislike for each other was exasperating. Fed up of being the arbitrator, I increasingly neglected to tell her things. She was incapable of seeing your good points; you refused to see hers. It was easier to keep you apart. My teachers used to inform me I’d make an excellent political negotiator. I hadn’t realised it would end up being between my husband and best friend.

  Propping up the door frame, fully attired for the hike, itching to leave the room, you blatantly snorted at your watch at least twice. ‘I hate being late. I’ve fired people for less.’

  ‘Gregg, for goodness’ sake, go down without me, please. Mr Punctuality.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Your eyebrows rose.

  ‘I’ll see you all in Reception, okay. I won’t be too long.’ Anything to stop the breathing down my neck. ‘Carry on ahead. Please.’

  ‘If you’re not down in ten, I’ll leave without you!’ You shut the door firmly behind you. If it hadn’t been a fire door, it would have slammed. Thank God. Why so intolerant today?

  The day dragged on from bad to worse, the inadequate plaster overwhelmed by a raw, weeping heel. I couldn’t continue. My stomach kno
tted; how would I tell you? As I hobbled along, I rehearsed chosen words to soften the blow. Jesus, Eve, get on with it. Eventually, I told you. You uttered the words of a compassionate partner, but your eyes conveyed something else. I would have retreated alone but the kindness of your group forced you to join me. The air throbbed with resentment.

  ‘No, Gregg, you go back with poor Eve, of course you should. We’ll catch you later for pre-dinner drinks in the bar. No problem at all.’ Why did they have to be so damn considerate?

  You walked and I limped back in silence. The pain was excruciating. Silent tears popped. You were aware of my tears; we both pretended otherwise. Back in the centre of Keswick, I asked to rest, grab a coffee.

  ‘Are you for real? You’ve completely wrecked my day. My chances. Embarrassed me. How the hell’s a coffee going to help? I’m going back to the hotel. Try and work out how to limit the damage. If at all possible. You do whatever you bloody like, sure you will anyway. Just give me some space.’

  You paced ahead without looking back. Had I missed something? A shadow of gloom hung, yet I still tried to make excuses. Searched for reasons. I didn’t want to see what my heart was aching to show me. Your puffed-up figure strode into the distance. My hobble interspersed with anger. Humiliation. Then sadness. The rise of my secrecy. The lies, the covering, the deceit. Why? Because I was ashamed. By the time I reached the hotel you were nowhere to be seen. I assumed you were back in our room. I loitered; did I go up to find you, or not, maybe down to a medicinal drink in the bar instead? The latter would have won, if the need to remove my tacky boot wasn’t so overbearing.

  After several minutes of vigorous door-knocking, nothing. No response. I limped back down to Reception, thankful for the authentic albeit slightly rickety lift. Charming, if not in pain.

  I checked the bar area.

  The thought of a subterranean, warm soapy bath hailed me. Locked out of the room like a naughty teenager, I requested a spare key from Reception. I was duly informed you had made a further reservation for me in a separate room, in the newer part of the hotel. My belongings were in the process of being relocated. A self-conscious blush tiptoed up my neck. I swiftly tried to recover my pride, which was running for the door. The haughty, smug receptionist eyed me.

  ‘Yes, of course, that’s what I meant. I need the key to my new room, please. Not the old room. You can’t beat your own space, can you?’ I lied.

  A telepathic moment transferred between us. It informed me she knew I was lying; I had been well and truly dumped by the charming man I’d arrived with only yesterday. Apparently as man and wife too. I thanked her for her service and passed back a telepathic not so polite message. I considered leaving until I remembered I didn’t have the car keys, or the house keys. I didn’t even have my purse, or change of clothes.

  I reached my new, more like staff quarters room. Plonked onto the not so sumptuous single person’s bed and began to ease off what looked like a boot recovered from a murder scene. My thoughts returned to you. I sieved through the events of the previous evening, with no plausible justification for your behaviour today. You were a little uptight. But no one seemed to notice. The pressure of being a climber at a corporate event. Calculating each manoeuvre, each upward step. ‘Watch what you say, Eve’, you’d advised me. I hadn’t realised I was so stupid. ‘No, just think about what you give away’, you’d corrected. ‘Don’t discuss any of my comings and goings. Put on your best performance for me’, you had asked, taking my hand.

  Performance? We are who we are, surely? It wasn’t my fault my glass was continually refilled, and then they played the best dance music. You didn’t want to dance, but I had a great time.

  I fell in a heap on the bed, with an overwhelming urge to close my eyes.

  I slept for some time; it was dark when I awoke. Rudely stirred by a familiar buzzing sound from my jacket, strewn across the floor in a manner you would disapprove of. I shuddered at the thought of you being witness to the rooms Sam and I had shared on our travels. Now, disorientated, it took a few moments to recall where I was, or why I was there. My mobile. I stretched to drag my jacket from the floor by its hood. Sickness crept over me with recalls of our horrible day. A new message from you popped up.

  Bet you’re bored out your pants! Soon be over. Give me a call about plans for next weekend. Really looking forward to it. xxx

  Odd? What the hell? Was that text even meant for me? I wasn’t bored, I was fed up and in agony. What did you mean about the weekend? You knew I was going away.

  You texted me again.

  Hope you got the message – from your ‘friend’ Joe. You’ll not be able to find it. I deleted it last night, while you frolicked on the dance floor! Did I not mention – I despise betrayal.

  Shit!

  Great! So that was what this had been about. You looked over my messages, put two and two together, came up with ten. But you knew about my friend Joe. Talk about a mind-bender.

  ‘A few too many males in your contact list for my liking,’ you casually joked. It wasn’t jest, though, was it? I thought it was endearing; you were obviously jealous but didn’t know how to show it.

  Why did I feel so guilty? I hadn’t done anything, not really. I felt indignant. Why were you sneaking through my messages anyway? Didn’t you trust me? I always considered those who distrusted were the ones to be wary of. Hung without a trial. Angry, guilty or nervous. A train whizzing through the station of all three, no time to stop at either.

  Shaky hands flicked to my contacts list. Joe was no more; you’d deleted him. I’d told you I was away the next weekend; I was going with Sam to London. I’d left out the details, sidestepped the issue of Joe coming with us, but only because I knew you wouldn’t like it. Chewing it over, it did look a little bad. But it was innocent. Yet I felt like a dirty cheat.

  You texted me again.

  I don’t expect to see you at dinner tonight. You have a migraine. What happens next? I haven’t decided.

  *

  I didn’t go to London. I tried to call Joe; he didn’t respond. You informed me you’d had ‘a little chat with Joe’. And that I needed to decide if it was to be you or Joe? Then Joe wouldn’t be in contact again.

  A lesson learned, Eve.

  I questioned us, for the first time.

  ‘Come on, Eve! Do you want to be responsible for hurting your parents? Surely not after they’ve invested so much into our marriage. Especially now they’ve announced they’ll be moving abroad soon. Can you imagine the position you would put them in? Unthinkable. Just be a little more aware of your actions, that’s all. In time I’ll forgive your betrayal. We’ll be good together. It’s early days.’

  My parents were in the beginnings of planning to relocate to pastures new, now I was apparently so settled. How convenient for you. You used anyone I cared for as a weapon, didn’t you?

  Chapter Eight

  Cornwall 2016

  He negotiates the stairs; ensuring he doesn’t step on the bottom one. Treading through the small tiled inner hall; he raises an elbow to switch on the light. At the front door, he knocks once, twice, before opening it onto the unfamiliar street to check no one has parked too closely to his beloved car. The cones he placed at either end are still in position. Personal space is so important. He closes the door, sighing. Yet another transitory rental property, it will have to suffice. It certainly isn’t the worst he’s endured, and it won’t need to be for too long.

  He turns on his heel in pursuit of coffee, regarding each foot treading the way to the kitchen. His heart rate ups at the sight of a loose lace dragging along the contaminated floor. Sweat threatens his brow, flaunting thoughts of germs, hammering at the sole, creeping up the leather, seeking weakness in the stitching. Resist, bloody resist, come on, he urges. He can’t. And diverts to the cleaning box, still stacked with the others in the dining area. Eight boxes in total. His whole life in eight boxes; it was ten, a few months ago. It would have been seven this time, had he not spread the c
ontents to ensure the even number. With hands now in rubber he removes the soiled lace, from shoe to the bin. This had better not be an omen for today. He unravels a new untainted lace; he has an unlimited supply. A practised hand feeds it through holes without the need to touch.

  He looks around his unfamiliar surroundings. It was dark and he was tired when he arrived last night. There is a small but adequate kitchen, reasonably clean to the naked eye. Picking up his kettle – it always travels separately with his suitcase – he removes the lid, peers in, replaces the lid. Yep, still empty. He obeys his orders from above, tipping the spout over the sink regardless. No old water. Measuring sufficient water for two cups, no more. He replaces the lid, returns the kettle to its base, spout facing at forty-five degrees from the switch.

  Breathe. Relax. Something about alien dwellings. Dirty buggers everywhere. I am doing the right thing in coming here, aren’t I? He considers. I’ve waited years, but still? No, don’t bottle it now.

  The moment he passed the Cornwall border last night, hurtling down the A30, he thought he might be sick. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy, with it being so many years since his last visit. Time builds barriers. In another life, he’d have loved it here. But Cornwall’s too diseased now. He quickly spins, nearly missing his moment. Successfully lifting the kettle just before it hits the point of rapid boil. Close. One, two, and a pinch of strong instant coffee hits the base of his mug. No milk unfortunately, it rolled out of the box into the rear footwell last night, where it still lies. A job for gloves later on. He stirs the black liquid four times in a clockwise direction.

  Seasoned hands rub his sore head. Whisky seemed like a good idea at the time. A hangover in the morning, he considered, no big deal. Live for the moment, I’ll be fine in the morning, he justified.