Her Greatest Mistake

by Sarah Simpson

  I continued, despite knowing it would go over his head. ‘It will give Mummy lots of strength and all the confidence you and I are going to need soon. Okay?’ Soon? What was my plan, other than to escape? It had to be one to also benefit you. The normal routes of leaving a broken marriage were not an option. You would never let us go, would you. Unless it was in your best interest.

  ‘Okay. So, Mummy, Be Strong,’ he exaggerated at me. I picked him up and snuggled his warm body tightly.

  As we walked towards the patio door, I promised him. ‘One day soon, not too long away, Mummy will take you away from all this.’

  ‘Mummy, Jack go on olerday.’ He beamed.

  ‘Kind of like a holiday, yes. Then we can be happy together. Okay?’ He gave me one of his crushing smiles before nuzzling his head into my hair.

  He had no idea of the true meaning of my words, so it didn’t matter that I voiced my motives. We had an unspoken understanding: mine was to make essential changes and his was to place his trust in me. It was a huge ask, given his angelic face still lit up at the sight of his daddy, since he didn’t realise the truth. He wanted to love him; I wished it were possible. He naturally assumed the things he witnessed and heard were standard. This was my greatest fear of all. Jack could grow up thinking his dad was normal.

  Just the night before, I was giving Jack his tea in his high chair in the kitchen when you arrived home unusually early. The slam of the door caused us both to jump. ‘Eve?’ you bellowed from the hall.

  ‘In here; giving Jack his tea.’ Why did I always hope today would be different? Even when I knew it couldn’t be. Your leather shoes tapped on the wood before you sauntered into the kitchen, pulling at your tie to loosen it, dropping your suit jacket onto the side.

  You stopped in the tracks of Jack’s chortle-filled smile. ‘There you are.’ You pointed back to him, smiling. If only this were how you could remain, I ached.

  Jack’s little face emitted splashes of joy and mischief. Then he picked up his apple and flung it to the floor, giggling, ‘Daddy!’

  You moved towards him, scowling as you bent down to pick up the apple segment. ‘Don’t do that, Jack, it’s naughty! Does Mummy let you do it?’

  I watched as Jack’s upturned plump lips levelled out.

  ‘He was just excited to see you. Over enthusiastic.’

  ‘He has to realise this is naughty. Not acceptable.’ You glared at Jack as if he were an insolent teenager.

  Shame your parents didn’t teach you the rights and wrongs of life, I thought.

  I was keen not to let the situation escalate. Constantly playing the arbitrator, trying to prevent a fall-out over the most insignificant issues. ‘Do you want Daddy to finish giving you your fruit, Jack?’ I asked him.

  ‘Ye-e-s-s-s.’ He kicked his happy-again feet against the leg rest. I turned to pass over to you, but the look on your face told me I was a fool.

  You held out your hands. ‘No can do, I’m afraid. I’ve a meeting tonight.’ You prodded at your mobile screen. ‘Everyone will be here in… around an hour. I’ve notes to prepare yet.’ You turned away to swagger over to the glass unit, reaching for a whisky tumbler. You didn’t address Jack again. He simply disappeared.

  ‘Who’s coming here?’ I asked you.

  You shot me a quizzical look. ‘Why? Of what relevance is it?’ I didn’t respond. Pouring yourself a large whisky, swirling the burnt orange liquor in the glass, you replied, ‘Work colleagues; usual gang. Important stuff.’ You gulped back indulgently; I was wishing you’d choke. ‘Can you dig out the Thai menu from the drawer in the utility room?’

  ‘What about the lasagne I’ve made?’

  You topped up your glass, smirking. ‘Eve, come on? I can hardly serve up…’ you smirked ‘… lasagne. This isn’t a cosy soirée.’ Your mobile pinged. ‘Dig out the menu, there’s a good girl.’ You didn’t look up from your screen but continued to noisily gulp the honeyed liquid. I bit my tongue. I could feel my blood pressure rising. So, was this how crimes of passion occurred? I welcomed another night away from you, but you made my blood boil with your brazen, rude arrogance. I turned away to take a seat next to Jack, who had withdrawn at his father’s lack of interest.

  You moved to the other side of the kitchen, and began to rummage through the pull-out larder cupboard. ‘Can you make sure Jack is bathed, in bed on time tonight? He can’t be making a noise, running around when I’ve people here,’ you conveyed to my back.

  ‘Sure.’ Why didn’t I tell you, it’s Jack’s home, not theirs? Because it would have damaged our chances; patience was compulsory. ‘Shall we read your favourite book tonight, Jack? The one with the flying chair?’ Jack beamed, nodding enthusiastically.

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’ I could hear you taking items from the larder cupboard, tossing them on the floor. I tried to ignore you. I already knew what your grievance was.

  ‘What adventure do you think they’ll have this time?’ I asked Jack. You continued to empty the entire cupboard of jars, packets and tins into a heap. My stomach curdled at the sound, as I felt your frustration building by the moment. A ticking bomb.

  ‘To a new land!’ shouted Jack.

  I could sense you were standing still. ‘A new land? Like what?’ I knew you were staring at me; willing me to turn around.

  ‘EVE!’ you shouted, making me jump despite knowing it was coming. I turned to see your incensed expression. I didn’t need to ask; I’d been shopping that morning and, in the rush to get Jack out for his swimming club, had placed the grocery items in the appropriate cupboard but without care; not in the correct order or position. Careless.

  ‘Well?’ You stood looking from the carnage on the floor to me and back again. ‘Do you not have anything to say?’

  ‘Not now, Gregg, you’re worrying Jack.’ I looked back at Jack to see his bottom lip beginning to quiver.

  Then, lots of scuffing and thudding noises behind me as you booted various packages over the floor, spewing contents, hitting the kitchen base units. My shoulders tensed with trepidation but it still took me by surprise as my head pounded forward, jarring my neck. The taste of iron filled my mouth as I’d bit hard down on my tongue. From the large tub of Marmite that now wedged itself between my backbone and the rear of the chair, having rebound from my skull. Thank goodness for plastic packaging, ricocheted through my mind. I took Jack’s innocent hand in mine, in some rough attempt to soothe away his concerned look. Some time ago, I’d probably have apologised to you.

  ‘I’m going to shower. Ensure this mess is straightened out. I mean, for pity’s sake, what have you been doing all day? You’re right, you should return to work. At least then I’ll be able to employ someone competent to sort the house.’

  I could quite easily have reached for a kitchen knife. I counted to ten; time, Eve, time.

  With inflexible eyes bearing into me, you snatched up the bag of whole nuts you were obviously looking for, along with your whisky tumbler, before making your way back to the door, grabbing your jacket from the work surface as you passed.

  It was then I saw the bulky envelope drop from your jacket pocket, the contents clearly visible. Two abundant wads of cash staring back at me. There must have been thousands of pounds lying shadily on the floor. Where on earth had it come from? Why would you, a professional man, be walking around with thousands of pounds’ worth of notes in your pocket? You bent down and casually picked up the envelope, smirking at me, before back-stepping into the doorway.

  ‘Make sure packets, tins and cartons are separated. In a logical content-related order; via the sell-by dates, so the product label is clearly visible. NOT THE CONTENTS LABEL!’ You stomped away from the kitchen, wittering to yourself, ‘It’s really not that difficult, or too much to ask, surely.’

  I desperately needed to be free from my marital shackles. Why did I have to marry a psychopath? Someone who’d never give in, give up or accept. In your eyes, bit by bit, we were increasing your levels of frustration. So, forcing up
the gravity of the lessons you required to teach me to keep control. An outlay I was required to pay. My prize would be bigger. From my point of view, you were becoming weaker. The jurisdiction in your eyes tightened, but in mine it was crumbling. Eventually, this would force you to make mistakes, let down your façade to show your true colours. I didn’t ever truly consider how far you or I would be willing to go. We were on a path to somewhere without a map and only a vague idea of destination.

  How it pained you if, when you returned in the evenings, Jack was not already fed, bathed and in his pyjamas. If he was downstairs and not upstairs. If I’d forgotten to turn off the TV before going upstairs; if the main light was visible in Jack’s bedroom, instead of his bedtime side lamp. If I’d spilt some of his milk on his side table whilst putting his night-time beaker down. Or if for some, God-forbidden reason, I’d left out the toys from where we’d been playing together on the lounge floor.

  Your work colleagues arrived just as I was settling Jack off to sleep. I lay with him, recounting a favourite story as he twiddled strands of my hair with heavy eyes. It was not long before I heard bulbous voices, followed by car doors slamming, then animated back-slapping greetings from downstairs. Why were you even holding these meetings in our home? Why did you no longer use the plush offices or one of the many lavish establishments you used to frequent in Birmingham? Jack stopped twiddling my hair, his pale eyelids shut tight. I tiptoed over to his bedroom window overlooking the driveway. One of the cars I recognised. I’d seen it on the driveway following the disastrous golf-club night and several times since; the other two cars were unknown to me. Were these people something to do with the cash? His strange and repulsive behaviour?

  As I crept from Jack’s room around the galleried landing I caught sight of one of the men, lingering at the study door. Except he didn’t look like a man, more like a young lad. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. Strange, why would he be here? To take the minutes maybe? Perhaps he was a legal secretary of some kind. I loitered in the shadows, trying to listen. Then, you must have closed the door. So, I decided to make the most of the peace and quiet, retreating to the bathroom for a long deep soak.

  Sometime later, I re-emerged to check out of the window again; one of the cars had left. With you and co out of sight behind the closed study door, I slunk through to your dressing area, where you hung your suits. A pressing need to check your jacket pockets hit me whilst in the bath. I couldn’t shake the feeling of something iniquitous happening. I ruffled eagerly through your jackets, but you had so many, I wasn’t convinced which one you’d been wearing earlier. I found nothing. No envelope, no wads of cash. Where would you be likely to hide it? If it wasn’t unlawful, why hide it anyway? I rummaged through your work outfits for a little longer to no avail. All your pockets were empty, not so much as a handkerchief or a lone receipt. Why did you have to be so goddam methodical?

  I peeped over the landing to ensure the coast was still clear. With one last idea of where you might have hidden your stash, I stole off to one of the spare bedrooms. A rickety timeworn chest of drawers sat under the window full to the brim with your memorabilia and certificates. I wondered if I really wanted to be sneaking through your things. I had to. I quickly moved through the drawers from top to bottom, resisting the musty smell, with one drawer remaining to check. But unbeknown to me, it was locked, so as I hurriedly tugged at it, it shunted the whole chest forward. The mirror, being precariously balanced on the top, catapulted in slow motion over my head before smashing to the hard floor. Sending shards everywhere.

  I held my breath as my heartbeat spiralled, waiting, frozen. It wasn’t long before I heard footsteps, controlled but gaining-pace footsteps moving up the stairs. I remained paralysed, fearful of the situation I had created, until a dark shadow loomed in the doorway. You sneered. I shivered; that smile was always the worst.

  ‘Cleaning? Surely not. Especially at this time in the evening?’

  ‘I was looking for Jack’s red medical book. Have you seen it?’

  ‘And why would it be in here?’

  ‘I thought, you or I might have put it in this chest, to keep it safe.’ You shook your head; why was I even bothering to pretend?

  Two more footsteps before I was yanked to my feet by my arm. Your unyielding eyes penetrated mine. My soul thumping at my ribcage for reprieve as you glared down at me. A few icy quiet moments passed before you walked me like a naughty child around the galleried space, squeezing my arm tightly. All the time being aware of your guests quiet in the study. You shoved me through our bedroom door, backed me over to the bed until it hit the backs of my legs, forcing me to sit. One last knowing smirk. Then you paced away. ‘You are unbalanced,’ you told me as you removed the only key from the oak door, locking it behind you.

  ‘Gregg. You can’t lock me in. What if Jack wakes up? You’re downstairs in the study – you won’t be able to hear him.’ But you didn’t care, did you?

  ‘Shhh,’ you said behind the locked door.

  I heard voices radiating from the hallway. Should I shout, bang loudly on the door? Create a scene, let them know what you’re really like? No, it wouldn’t work. You’d make me out to be a lunatic somehow. You thumped something, your hand, I presumed, as a warning on the door. ‘Don’t you worry, darling.’ The words being unnecessarily loud, obviously not for my benefit. ‘Of course, take yourself off to bed. You’re sick. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. Relax for the evening.’

  I considered the room for something to do, to distract my humming mind and the building anger. I couldn’t blow all my hard work; as much as it pained me, I needed to wait. I picked up my Kindle and read and reread the same couple of paragraphs, each time forgetting to focus on the narrative. My eyes followed the words but my mind could not engage.

  How could anyone hate anyone so copiously? How could I have married someone I now wished dead?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Cornwall 2016

  Slow shilly-shally steps down through the village towards the sandy cove. My mind deliberating over what I need to spill; all I can afford to leave out. It feels so odd now – how did I ever exist in that life before Cornwall? A story of two distinct people; or is it? Maybe it’s not so removed. Can anyone ever be totally detached from their past? My mouldable brain still reflects the past trodden pathways carved so deeply. New neural pathways for new experiences exist; yet the gentle foliage is not sufficient to disguise old dirty tracks. Several times, this week alone, I’ve woken in the early hours; my skin damp and hot, my heart running on overtime, my mind subservient to old templates.

  Now, as I amble towards The Wheal, I think back to last week, when I decided to clear out the spare room. It had been nagging at me for a while and we could do with the space. I opened the door and cautiously peeked in before being transported back in time, face to face with two crates crammed with A4 ring binders. Each binder bursting with legal document after court order after personal statement after antagonistic solicitors’ letters. Thousands and thousands of pounds’ worth of absolutely pointless court orders and legal representation. They take your money but they don’t tell you these orders are often not worth the paper they’re typed on. Why did I bother going through a divorce? I knew it would never be the end.

  I quicken my step, thinking of how I needlessly fed the fat pockets of so-called family solicitors and honourable barristers. Poor Gloria had popped her head around the door to catch me humping stuffed black bin liners that I’d emptied the crates into down to one of the outhouses. I’d promised her the liners didn’t contain amputated limbs, but they may as well have.

  I arrive at the entrance to the pub, knowing Bea and Ruan are waiting inside for me to spill the beans. When I agreed to come, I’d forgotten Jack would be at football training. I’ve sent him a couple of texts and he hasn’t as yet replied. I push worrying thoughts from my mind as I enter. I duck my head ever so slightly to avoid the battered Mind the Beam sign. Drifting between oak-beamed low
ceilings is the scent of onions, homemade pastry comforts and what smells like some kind of casserole, making my stomach groan. Nooks and crannies everywhere are already filling up for the night; the atmosphere dances with the usual buzz of local chatter.

  I spot Ruan, casually leaning over the pumps chatting to Ted, the owner; he’ll be there a while. Bea has found her favourite table tucked away in the corner with a view onto the road through the leaded-light window. I zigzag through the tables to her, tapping Ruan on the back and acknowledging Ted as I pass, hoping this will serve as a reminder to Ruan to stop chatting and hurry up with our drinks. They both give me a nod, before continuing with what I’m guessing to be idle chatter.

  I’m feeling jittery, knowing I’m to disclose fragments of my past; after last night, I no longer have a choice in this. I’m about to open one of the locked doors in my mind; behind it is a dark room with a fading fire. The pungent smell of smoulder, blocking my airways, stifling my breath. I’d rather throw a cloak over, smother it, but I can’t. It will simply catch alight again. Whilst smouldering embers are manageable, what comes next may not be. I know you’re out there. It’s not just the building evidence, it’s also my super-sensitive sixth sense. I can almost smell you getting closer.

  I kiss Bea on her cold cheek. ‘You got here quickly. Did you come across the fields or something?’ She smells of honest salt air; the human contact is comforting.

  Her full lips upturn. ‘Ha, you know me, when on a promise of alcohol. Got here just in time to bag our favourite seat…’ she searches the room ‘… in case anyone else had plans for it.’ She reminds me of a small child.

  I rub my icy hands together. ‘So I see. Well done, you. I must admit I could kill for a drink tonight.’

  She takes my hand, rubbing it between hers, then blowing on it, as I used to do to Jack. ‘Are you dead?’ she asks me. ‘You’re colder than me. Cold hands, warm heart, that’s what they say, isn’t it?’