Close to Me

by Amanda Reynolds

  The barn is in shadow as I let myself in, calling out to Rob although I already know he’s not home; his car isn’t in the drive. With no inclination to eat, I go upstairs and lie fully clothed on the bed. Nick’s concerns, so similar to mine, have reignited the anger I felt when I first found out about Sash’s new flat. It was totally unacceptable of Rob to take such a huge decision without consulting me. All he’s achieved is to give Sash somewhere nicer to live; with Thomas. And more than that he lied to me and asked Sash to do the same. It wasn’t just about the flat and the ridiculous expense of it; it was about our marriage and trust.

  The phone rings, Rob’s voice tired at the other end.

  ‘Where are you?’ I ask.

  ‘At work of course.’

  ‘It’s late, Rob. Come home.’

  There’s a beat of silence, then Rob says, ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me. You’re never here. You always have an excuse. Should I be worried?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Are you having an affair?’ As soon as the words are out, I regret them. My anger is about Sash’s new living arrangements, resurrected by my discussion with Nick earlier. Rob has never given me any cause to doubt his fidelity. Not once. If anything, I’m the one not to be trusted.

  ‘For god’s sake, Jo. We have a huge mortgage, and now I’m paying most of the rent on a very expensive flat. And I give Fin money. I work long hours to keep my job; I thought you knew that.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Drive safely.’

  ‘Jo, don’t go. You really thought that I was cheating on you?’

  ‘No, not really,’ I reply. ‘It’s just sometimes I’m afraid of what’s happening to us. We’re growing apart, almost leading separate lives.’

  ‘I’ll leave now, be home in ten, okay? Jo, you still there?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m still here.’ I can hear Rob at the other end, deep breaths in and out, and I imagine how he must feel, or try to. ‘I’m sorry, Rob. I do trust you. Of course I do.’

  18

  Fourteen Days After The Fall

  I’m washing up the breakfast things when I hear Rob’s large feet coming down the stairs, the sound of his descent creating a picture in my mind of the two of us somewhere close to the top. The memory I have of the moments pre-fall is fairly consistent now. We were arguing, Rob was angry, begging me not to leave. After that, I’m less secure in my recollections, although sometimes I see my foot slip, a hand outstretched to save myself as the tiles on the hall floor hurtle towards me. Rob comes into the kitchen and plants a peck on my cheek, undeterred it would seem by my frosty silence.

  I turn to face him, my soapy hands dripping on to the floor. ‘You lied to me, Rob. About the drop-in centre, Sash’s pregnancy, and probably a hundred other things. How am I supposed to trust anything you say any more?’

  Rob sighs and places his laptop case on the kitchen island. ‘I thought you understood, Jo. We talked about this last night, or have you forgotten that too?’

  ‘That’s a cheap shot, even for you,’ I tell him, turning back to look out of the window.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, wrapping his long arms around my waist. ‘That was uncalled for and I apologise.’

  I shrug him off and move away, drying my hands on a tea towel and switching on the coffee machine.

  Of course I remember last night. I tackled Rob as soon as he came home from work, the shock of seeing Sash’s swollen belly far too big a secret to remain unspoken for a moment longer than necessary.

  ‘You just can’t leave well alone,’ Rob said, accusing me of going behind his back, which seemed rich as he’d kept Sash’s pregnancy from me for the last two weeks. I’d anticipated his excuses, some regret, an apology, but I got none of those, just a hard-faced vindication of his decision to protect me from the awful news. ‘Look, Jo. This may seem harsh, but telling you wouldn’t have made any difference,’ he said, rubbing his hands across his tired face. ‘You’ve forgotten a lot of the last year, which must be incredibly frustrating, I understand that, and maybe I should have told you sooner, but I was thinking of you. I wanted you to get better first.’

  ‘You know, Rob,’ I said much later, as I went up to bed, ‘there was a time when you and I knew everything about one another. Everything.’

  I sip my coffee and turn back to look across at Rob, typing into his phone, oblivious to me it would seem. This morning is a new day for him, a line drawn under last night’s argument. ‘I thought you were going to work?’ I ask him.

  He looks up. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you going to work now?’

  ‘Yes.’ He picks up his laptop case and smiles at me distractedly as he slings the strap on to his shoulder. ‘We’ll talk more later, okay?’

  I follow him into the hallway. ‘I saw Fin yesterday too; went to his house,’ I tell him.

  ‘You didn’t say,’ he says, turning back to me.

  I wait, expecting a lecture about overdoing it, a lunch with Sash then seeing Fin – he doesn’t even know I also visited the drop-in centre – but Rob’s surveillance of me seems to have slackened off of late, and he’s again distracted by his phone, frowning at the screen as he types. ‘How was he?’ he asks.

  ‘You know, same old Fin, except . . .’ I reply, trailing off.

  Rob glances up. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I should really go—’

  ‘He said something quite strange . . .’

  Rob looks up again and this time I have his attention. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Something about taking the money and shutting up,’ I tell him, returning his stare. ‘Do you know what he meant?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Rob says, but makes no attempt to leave. ‘Did you ask him?’

  ‘I did, but he didn’t give me a straight answer. He was quite angry though. Upset me.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him. Leave it with me.’

  ‘No, don’t. I just wondered what he meant, can’t seem to get it out of my head.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t think he’s that happy taking the rent money I give him; best not mention it again.’ He smiles at me. ‘I should really get going. Talk later, okay?’ He walks to the door, then turns back and tries to kiss me goodbye, sighing when I look away. ‘Fin is struggling, Jo. Don’t make things worse by stirring it all up again.’

  I step forward and slam the door, walking back into the kitchen and throwing my cold coffee into the sink to produce a satisfying dark stain on the cream enamel. I look up to see Rob’s car turn out of the drive as I rinse away the coffee dregs with a jet of cold water. How dare he tell me not to speak to Fin, as if I’m the one stirring things up. I take a fresh coffee into the den and stare at my open laptop, waiting as my emails download, but as before I find nothing of note. What was I doing with myself all day? I was at the drop-in-centre a fair bit, probably met Sash for lunch occasionally, but what else? The obvious conclusion is an affair, the ultimate distraction from this endless solitude and boredom. I think of Nick in his office, embarrassed when I’d pressed him for details. Is it his naked back I recall, or Thomas’s? My thoughts wear me out, the questions a constant dizzying soundtrack. I need to obliterate them, find some peace, even if it is only some temporary respite from this god-awful loneliness.

  Rob’s headlights track across the glass of the front door, then the kitchen window, as he reverses his huge car into its usual position. I haven’t closed the blinds, or switched on any lights. The whole day has evaporated into nothingness, the evening the same. I lift my head from the dining table and wipe the dampness from my mouth, closing it on a yawn. The empty bottle of wine at my side speaks to me of the wasted hours, slipping from one glass to the other. It was a gradual process, which didn’t really start in earnest until mid-afternoon, an ingrained sense of decorum prevailing until then. I run my fingers through my hair, the bump on my scalp now almost gone, but the tenderness is still there. I listen for Rob’s key in the door, but the r
oom spins around me. I close my eyes and grip on to the table, trying to recall my day. I definitely went upstairs after the first bottle because I remember I was looking for my phone to send a message to Rob, demanding to know why he wasn’t home in time for dinner.

  I open my eyes, the room still spinning as I try to recall what happened next. I know I had the phone in my hand, checking it as I came back down, which was probably why I stumbled; not because of the drink, because I wasn’t completely drunk by then. It wasn’t even the same stair I fell from before. I was almost at the bottom, just a missed step, not even a fall, but it had jolted me out of my stupor, my free hand going to my chest, heart pounding, and with the shock came another memory of the night I fell.

  Rob was so angry, angrier than I’ve ever seen him and I was trying to get away from him at the top of the stairs, but I needed to do something first, something important. I’d wanted a photo to take with me. One from the wall. One of the kids. One without Rob in it.

  ‘Jo? Where are you?’ Rob calls out from the hallway, the light now switched on out there.

  I tuck the empty wine bottle behind my back and turn on the kitchen lights as I walk through to the utility room, throwing the bottle into the recycling bin next to the first one. The sound of smashing glass unsteadies me further and I collide with the edge of the worktop, gripping on to it for support, a bag of clothes pegs spilling on to the floor at my feet.

  ‘Jo, where are you?’

  ‘I’m in here,’ I call out, a little less articulately than I’d hoped, bending over to pick up some of the pegs and then righting myself as a wave of nausea and dizziness hits me. ‘In the utility room.’

  ‘Hey,’ Rob says. ‘How you doing?’ He looks across at me as I join him in the kitchen, my hand to the wall for support. ‘Before you say anything; you’re right,’ he tells me, placing his laptop case on the island. ‘I should have reminded you Sash was pregnant straight away. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Yes, you should have,’ I say, steadying myself with my other hand on the door frame. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Late,’ Rob replies. ‘Bloody audit.’ He pulls a beer from the fridge and opens a drawer, rummaging around noisily until he finds the bottle opener.

  ‘Seems strange,’ I say, my words slurring despite my best efforts to form them correctly.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asks, then he frowns and tells me work should settle down soon; a few more weeks at most. He opens the beer, takes a mouthful, then he purses his mouth in a tight line, his eyes narrowing as he looks across at me. I’m now leaning, or perhaps slumping, against the worktop beneath the kitchen window. ‘Have you been drinking, Jo?’

  Maybe it’s the second bottle of wine I threw back, glass after glass in quick succession, the first not really hitting the mark after that jolt on the stairs, but I hear myself say, ‘Long hours for a fucking actuary.’

  He looks at me again and sighs, then removes his jacket and drapes it on the back of a stool, sitting at the island to drink his beer. ‘How many glasses have you had?’ he asks, pointing to the empty wine glass on the dining table.

  I walk towards it and rub at a dark ring left on the wood. He watches me over his shoulder and I shrug, walking up behind him to drape my arms on to his shoulders. I notice the shirt he wears is unironed, the collar stained with more than one wear. ‘Maybe I have had too much to drink, but you should have a clean shirt. I’m a bad wife, aren’t I?’

  ‘You’re not making any sense,’ he says, trying to shrug me off.

  I laugh, then dance as I did earlier when I’d turned the music to full volume to fill up the emptiness of the barn. I’d sung along too, as loud as I could with no one to hear me. This time the music is all in my head as I sway around the kitchen then circle the island, not particularly elegantly as my foot catches on the leg of one of the stools. At first Rob laughs as I twist and sing, the room swaying with me even if he won’t, but then he tires of my performance.

  ‘Stop it, Jo!’ he says as my hand lifts his from his beer, trying in vain to coax him from his seat.

  ‘Why not have some fun?’ I ask, pulling all my weight against his as I grab his hand again. ‘Dance with me!’

  He stands up and pushes me away, my footing lost for a second as I stagger backwards. We look at one another, neither of us speaking, then he looks away.

  ‘You know, you have a nasty temper, Rob,’ I say, straightening my hair with flattened hands as I steady myself, my clumsy efforts knocking a magnet from the fridge to the floor. I stare for too long at the place where it lies, smashed into four or five pieces, then I kneel down on the cold tile to pick them up, sun, sea and sand melding in my hand. ‘You pushed me,’ I say, looking up to meet Rob’s gaze.

  ‘Get up, Jo,’ he says, holding out a hand.

  I tell him no, I’ll see to myself, a hand to the floor, the other holding the broken pieces. I walk unsteadily across the kitchen, throwing them from an exaggerated height into the bin.

  Rob has his hands to the sides of his head in exasperation, watching me. ‘You’ve had too much to drink, it’s not good for you, not after—’

  ‘After what, Rob?’ I lean against the bin for support and the lid pings open again, my hand slipping from under me. ‘My fall?’

  ‘Yes, after your fall.’ He tries to take my arm as I pass, but I shrug him off.

  ‘Get off me!’ I stumble again and save myself against a kitchen cupboard.

  ‘Jo, you’re being ridiculous.’ He reaches out, but I bat away his hands. ‘How much have you had?’ he asks.

  ‘Enough to remember,’ I tell him, standing up straight again.

  ‘Remember what?’ he asks, stepping back.

  ‘I remember you and me at the top of the stairs. You were angry, weren’t you? Really angry. And you were shouting at me, and I’m trying to remember what I was doing, but I fucking can’t!’

  Rob stares at me. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re this drunk.’ He pushes past me to the door and starts to walk upstairs, but I haven’t finished with him yet, follow him out.

  ‘Why were you so angry, Rob?’ I call up after him, my bare foot kicking at the head-shaped hole at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Did you push me then too?’

  ‘What?’ He turns around and runs back down. ‘What are you talking about?’ He grabs my arm and holds it, shaking me. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Get off me!’ He lets go and we stare at one another. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying, that’s the point, isn’t it?’ I reply. ‘I need you to tell me what happened that night.’

  I step back and almost fall again.

  ‘For god’s sake, Jo. Sit down in the lounge.’

  Rob brings me a mug of black coffee, which I take without thanks.

  ‘Sip it,’ he tells me, asking if I’m sober enough to have a proper discussion.

  I tell him of course I am, but when I look up I see two very grumpy Robs staring back at me from the other end of the sofa. I close one eye to bring him back into focus, asking, ‘What?’

  He raises an eyebrow to me, then he takes an audible breath and exhales. ‘What do you want of me, Jo? I’m trying my best here.’

  ‘I want to know . . .’ I shake my head to try to clear it and Rob takes the mug from my hands. ‘I want to know exactly what happened before I fell. And don’t tell me we weren’t arguing because I know we were.’

  He passes me the coffee again and leans back against the sofa, his eyes almost closed. ‘Yes, we argued that night, of course we did, we were both angry. That’s what happens when you’re married.’

  ‘What were we arguing about?’ I ask, sipping my coffee again to stem the nausea.

  ‘You were always at the drop-in-centre and I was at work too much,’ he says, rubbing his eyes. ‘We’d neglected one another, I suppose—’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Let me finish!’ he says, sitting up straighter.

  ‘No, you let me speak!’ I tell him, sloshing the coffee into my lap, but I ignore
the mess and Rob’s efforts to help me as I need to say something before I forget, before Rob explains everything away, because a fragment of a memory has crept back into my consciousness.

  We were in the bedroom when the argument began. Rob had been talking about work, how busy it was getting, how he might have to pull an all-nighter again, and I was screaming at him, telling him he must think I’m stupid.

  ‘I accused you of having an affair,’ I tell him, daring him to contradict me, because I know I’m right. I know the memory is real.

  ‘No,’ Rob replies, holding my gaze. ‘You’re confused.’

  ‘Am I?’ I am confused, but not by the memory. I wish I hadn’t drunk so much; I feel sick and my head is still spinning.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ he replies. ‘Completely confused. You were angry, understandably so. I was working long hours. We’d neglected one another; both of us. But—’

  ‘So you weren’t?’ I ask, the effects of the wine slowing down my thinking. ‘You weren’t having an affair?’

  ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,’ he responds. ‘Do you have any idea of the amount of pressure I’m under?’ He frowns, shakes his head. ‘Sash’s flat, Fin’s handouts, they’ve put a huge strain on our finances. I can’t afford to sit back, just expect to have a job if I don’t adapt. They’re talking about cut-backs, more redundancies. I have to make contacts, be prepared to change roles . . .’ He looks away, moves one hand to his eyes and rubs them. ‘I can’t believe you’d think that I would . . .’ He looks at me again. ‘You know I’d never do anything to hurt you; you’re my world. God if you and I . . . if I ever thought we were over . . .’