Close to Me

by Amanda Reynolds

  ‘Can I be honest?’ Rose asks.

  ‘Are you ever anything else?’ I reply, forcing a smile.

  She smiles back, but there’s a note of caution in her voice. ‘You didn’t say, not exactly, in fact you did your best to cover it up, but if I had to guess why you were leaving Rob, I think it was because you’d found out he was having an affair.’ Rose reaches for my hand, even her perennially direct manner challenged on this occasion. ‘I’m so sorry, Jo. You said it was because of the kids, but I didn’t believe you. Why suddenly decide to leave your beautiful home, your twenty-odd-year marriage? I thought maybe Rob was violent towards you, but you’ve always said not. There had to be a more compelling reason and discovering an affair seemed the obvious conclusion.’

  ‘Maybe it was me.’ I say. ‘Nick said-’

  ‘I think that was always pretty one-way. Nick’s way, not yours.’

  My gut feeling is she’s right about Nick being keener than I was, but there’s still that memory of Thomas naked, my desire for him. I can’t bring myself to share that with Rose, and anyway, even if something did happen between us, he’s unimportant, he wouldn’t be a reason to leave. But Rob having an affair, that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? As ridiculous as him deliberately hurting me.

  ‘If I was leaving Rob . . .’ I say. ‘If!’ I tell her before she speaks again. ‘It was because we’d drifted apart after the kids left home, found we had nothing in common beyond them.’

  ‘That’s what you said,’ Rose replies, smiling at me. ‘But I got the impression—’

  ‘He works long hours,’ I say, cutting across her again. ‘It puts a lot of strain on us both.’

  But even as I speak my mind is elsewhere, an image of Rob and me returning. Rob is talking about work, how busy it’s getting, how he might have to pull an all-nighter and every thought and emotion held within me explodes in a tirade of abuse and recriminations. ‘Do you think I’m stupid? I saw you!’

  ‘He does seem to be away a lot,’ Rose is saying. ‘He’s an actuary, isn’t he?’ she asks, looking straight at me.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ I answer.

  ‘I’m no expert, but . . .’ Rose hesitates and places a hand to my trembling cup. ‘Let me take that for you.’ She smiles at me, places the cup and saucer back on the tray and tells me she’s so sorry, but don’t actuaries tend to be office-based, not away all the time at conferences and seeing clients?

  I look at her and I know she’s right, the signs have all been there; the excuses, clumsy, ridiculous even, but I’ve chosen to accept them and yet still felt dissatisfied afterwards, as if I’d known deep down he was lying. He’s covered up so much of the past, he said to protect me, but maybe he was protecting himself.

  ‘It all makes sense, doesn’t it?’ I say, a stone falling from my heart to my stomach. ‘Oh my god, I’ve been such a fool.’

  ‘No, not a fool.’ She takes my hand. ‘You trusted him.’

  ‘What should I do?’ I ask her, holding her hand as if it will stop me from falling into the black void which awaits, her tight grip the only thing keeping me safe.

  ‘Talk to him, Jo,’ she says, her words as directions, clear and distinct. ‘Ask him. You still don’t know anything.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head, releasing her grip on my hand. ‘You’re right. I don’t. But I need to before I make any decisions. Can I come here, if I need to?’

  ‘Of course, you don’t even have to ask.’ She places her hand on my arm. ‘Anything you need, I’m here. Anything at all.’

  Even after I leave, the subject turned over and over with Rose, I’m still not sure I should be thinking this way. Rob’s always been a faithful husband, why change now? He’s devoted to me, cloyingly so at times. I’ve never once thought he might stray. And yet . . .

  I start the car, glancing up at Rose’s window to return her wave. She’d wanted to come with me, worried what I might do, but I’d needed time to think. I thump the steering wheel as I drive off, muttering to myself, ‘Even his bloody overnight bag was empty when I’d picked it up! Fool! Damn fool!’

  I stop the car at a red traffic light, braking sharply, then something comes back to me. A flash of colour. The house where we used to live. Rob’s car parked in the drive. No, it was a different drive, and there was a door. A red door. I’d followed him there, I’d driven to his work and followed him there. And with that image comes another. A woman’s face, crumpled with grief or fear.

  The car behind me overtakes and races through the now green light, the driver shouting obscenities at me from the open window, but I remain stationary, trying to remember where that house was. All I can recall is driving past the house where we used to live and then leaning against a fence, a bush growing over it. There were flowers, big bold purple blooms, and butterflies, masses of butterflies.

  August – This Year

  I’ve put off coming here for the last few days, my loyalty to the drop-in centre the last thing on my mind. My life has divided itself into Before and After. I close my eyes and I see him; my husband. Opening another door. He had a key. And then I look at him: sleeping beside me, smiling across our dining table, dozing next to me on the sofa. And I want to kill him. But today I felt strong enough to come here, to offer some kind of explanation. Because this place has been a refuge for me, a place where I was wanted, even loved, and maybe one day I will want to return. Rose sees out the last of the day’s patrons and locks the door behind them, ushering me towards Nick’s office to continue our discussion.

  ‘No, I told you. Nothing’s happened,’ I reply. ‘It’s just some stuff at home, not something I really want to get into now, but—’

  ‘Look, if it’s anything I’ve said or done. I know I can be a bit direct at times. Or Nick?’ She leaves the words hanging between us as she closes the door.

  I tell her I’m hoping to be back here soon, but I have a few things to sort out first. Rose asks if it’s to do with Sash and I shake my head. She looks at me for more of an explanation and I take a deep breath and tell her my marriage is over. The first time I’ve admitted it to anyone, including myself.

  ‘You’re leaving him? Really?’ Rose sits down in Nick’s chair, a solid descent which causes the chair to groan beneath her. ‘Where will you go? Oh my god, Jo. Are you okay? Is there someone else involved?’

  I don’t answer her questions, instead reassuring her I’m fine, which in a sense I am, if numbness interspersed with moments of white-hot anger and then panic equates to being fine. I mutter something about the kids, how it’s sad, but we’ve grown apart, Rob and me. I’ll find somewhere to rent, maybe a hotel room at first, or perhaps Rob will move out. I don’t know yet. I haven’t worked out the details.

  ‘You haven’t told him then?’ she asks and I shake my head, grateful she doesn’t press me further.

  I didn’t wait to see him emerge from behind that glossy red door. Big scenes aren’t my style and I’d seen all I needed to. I cried as I drove away, the realisation he’d virtually told me where she lived, finding his mistress a house at the same time as he’d also looked for an apartment for our daughter, only adding to my despair. I cried again in our bedroom, waiting for Rob to come home, desperate to confront him then and there. But of course he was with her, so it was much later when he turned a key in our door. And I’d had more time by then. Time to consider what I should do. He called out my name, just as he’s done every time he’s returned to me from his other life, and then he ran up the stairs to find me, ready with excuses, but this time I could see his duplicitousness; compounded and confirmed with more lies about his whereabouts. He was working late, of course. He had a key and I was a fool. But even then I knew I would wait, use the time and knowledge to my advantage. And now I’ve had many days to think, to plan, to knock the edge off the rawness of my discovery.

  Rose nods as if she’s worked out what’s happened and I suppose it’s the natural conclusion to draw when someone tells you they’re leaving their husband. Part of me would like
to confide in her that I followed Rob, that he had a key, but then it would seem too real. Whilst it’s inside me I can contain it, at least for now.

  ‘It hasn’t been the same since the kids left home,’ I tell her again, the only detail I’m willing to share at this stage. ‘I’m in practical mode now: money, somewhere to stay, that kind of thing. Sash will need my help with the baby, so I want to be close by.’

  ‘Stay with me,’ Rose offers. ‘I’ve got a spare room.’

  ‘You’re very kind, but I think I’d rather be on my own. I’ll book into a hotel for a few days probably, somewhere neutral where I can explain to the kids.’ I think of Rob, wonder again how he’ll react. Whether he will be angry or show some contrition. For a moment, a spark of fear ignites and then I dismiss it. He’s never hurt me, not once.

  ‘Sash has got a spare room, hasn’t she?’ Rose asks. ‘You could go there.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t work,’ I say and thankfully she again doesn’t push it.

  ‘Will you keep in touch?’ Rose asks, the sadness in her voice so touching, although my emotions are very close to the surface these days; if Rob were ever around, or even a little bit perceptive, he would surely have noticed the change in me.

  ‘Of course I will,’ I tell her, brushing biscuit crumbs from the low chair so I can sit down, exhausted now by the reality of it all.

  She smiles. ‘I knew you were keeping something back.’

  ‘It’s not you, Rose. I’m a very private person.’

  She leans forwards and regards me across the desk. ‘He hasn’t hurt you, has he, I mean physically?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I tell her, shocked at the level of her misunderstanding, but I guess she’s heard many such stories, it’s not such a leap for her. ‘Rob’s not a violent man, Rose. We’ve neglected one another, grown apart. Maybe it was just the kids that kept us together and now they’re gone . . .’ In a way I think this is true, but then the words return again: he had a key. Rob’s other life has taken me over, an obsession that obscures all others.

  ‘Nick will be so—’ she begins, but her words are interrupted when the door is flung open.

  ‘Talking about me?’ Nick asks, bursting in with such force he almost demolishes a newly ordered pile of files, a wide grin for me and a jerk of his head to Rose to indicate she needs to move out of his chair.

  ‘Jo’s unfortunately leaving us,’ Rose tells him, standing up. ‘Personal reasons.’

  Nick looks across at me from the door, his face stricken. ‘You can’t,’ he says. ‘I won’t allow it.’

  Rose walks to the door, the looks exchanged between Nick and me more than enough to signal her departure, although before she goes she asks me if she should wait outside the door so we can leave at the same time. I shake my head and tell her she’ll miss the last bus. ‘I’ll be fine, honestly.’

  ‘What’s going on, Jo?’ Nick asks the second Rose has left, resting a hand on my arm as he walks past me to take his chair.

  ‘God, where to start,’ I tell him.

  He listens, his eyes downcast, as though the shame were his not Rob’s.

  ‘Have you confronted him?’ Nick asks.

  ‘Not my style, not yet anyway. It’s been difficult, knowing and not saying.’

  ‘My god, Jo! Difficult? How long have you been married, twenty-five years?’

  ‘Twenty-four,’ I correct him. Nick’s bluster isn’t helping; I’m barely holding it together as it is. ‘I needed to ensure everything is in place before I leave. Rob’s . . . persuasive.’

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,’ Nick says. ‘I should have noticed.’

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  Nick admonishes me again for keeping this to myself, he would have helped. He’s neglected me lately, he should have spent more time with me, checked I was okay. Then he looks up, as though a thought had just occurred to him. ‘Stay with me! Just as friends, of course. I’ll sleep on the sofa, you’ll be near Sash and the baby when the time comes, it’s walking distance from here, it’ll—’

  ‘You know I can’t,’ I say, edging forward in my seat. I lay a hand on his, looking down at his square palm pressed flat against the desk beneath mine. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on you.’

  ‘Please, Jo,’ he says, standing up, his hand grabbing mine. ‘Stay with me.’

  ‘Nick, don’t . . .’ I say, standing too, but he’s already around the desk, holding on to me, his arms around my waist, his face up to mine. ‘Nick, I said don’t,’ I tell him, freeing my arms to push back against his chest, gently at first, my feet slipping on papers and folders which have tumbled from the precarious piles, the low chair finding the backs of my legs. ‘Nick, stop!’ I shout, pushing harder, panic taking over as I stare at the closed door. Rose will be long gone, the place deserted.

  His mouth is all over mine now, his chin rough against my face. I pull away, more forcefully this time, pushing my palms against his shoulders, no longer mindful of his feelings or maintaining any pretence of politeness, but he lunges towards me again, his right arm raised, slamming me hard against the wall; the force of his body holding me there. I reach out, trying to turn his face towards me, to make him look into my eyes, one last chance to end this with some dignity, to make him see sense, but he shoves my hand away, grasping my wrist to dig his fingers hard into the skin and then the veins beneath, his rapid breaths hot against my neck. I cry out in pain, looking down at my wrist where he’s drawn blood with his fingernails, then again at the door, but beyond it there is silence. I close my eyes to shut him out, his hand beneath my skirt, searching and searching. He smells of sweat, a sickly scent thick with salt. I’m sinking, losing grip, but then I free my hand for a second from his clenched fist, burying my nails deep in his arm.

  ‘Jo, don’t! You know you want this; we both do.’ His voice is different, guttural.

  Insistent and urgent he holds me there, pinned to the wall and when I think it will be too late, that he will force himself inside me and I can do nothing to stop him, I scream. A pure primal scream I know only he will hear, but I cannot suppress, and at last he releases me.

  He steps back, raises his hands to the top of his head, half-moons of sweat darkening the pits of his shirt. ‘Oh my god. Jo, I’m so sorry.’ He recovers quickly, starts to excuse what he’s done, demanding I take some of the blame, it was both of us, I led him on. ‘Come on, Jo. Speak to me. Say something!’

  I pull down my skirt, find my bag, a lost shoe, lick the blood from the cuts on my wrist. I do not speak. I cannot. I turn to leave, open the door and look out. Beyond is emptiness and I run towards it, the darkness engulfing me, providing protection. I reach the door to the street and unlock it, flinging it open to enter the safety of the outside world, deep gulps of air into my lungs, but this time my screams are silent, inside my head.

  21

  Nineteen Days After The Fall

  I know I must drive past our old house, but beyond that I have no idea where I’m headed, other than a recollection of a bush draping over a fence, smothered in purple blooms and butterflies. Except it might not be flowering now; the march of time relentless despite my attachment to the past. Maybe the purple blooms will have turned brown in the last few weeks, the butterflies flown.

  I turn into the familiar road and feel another tug from the past. Our previous home is relatively unchanged, although the present occupants have filled the front garden with colour, the summer blooms fading, but still gaudy. I slow the car as I pass, recalling the couple who bought it from us; younger than Rob and me, maybe by five or ten years, and with two boys I think. I wonder if they still live there and resent their occupation, as if they stole the house and its happiness from us. I glance over at the park where I used to take Sash and Fin, remembering that’s where the road used to end, but now there’s a new estate.

  When I reach the end of yet another cul-de-sac I turn my car around once more, all the time looking for the fence and the tumbling purple flowers, doubting
more and more the accuracy of my memory. Then I spot tiny splashes of purple lingering amongst brown over-ripe blooms. I pull into the side of the road beside a fence and look across at the long row of identical houses, the sheer number of them overwhelming. I take a deep breath to clear my head, hoping I will be able to recreate the memory.

  It’s chilly as I climb out of my car; I shiver before I pull my jacket around me. The bush is large, maybe six feet across and seven or eight high, growing over the fence from the garden behind, just as I’d recalled. I lean against the wooden panels allowing the tumbling tendrils to conceal me from view, imagining how I must have done the same the last time I stood here.

  The houses are small, staggered modern terraces, imitation stone with no garages, just drives; a sprawling mass of starter homes around a triangle of grass, but it’s the ones directly ahead I’m interested in. The desiccated blooms are disturbed by a gust of wind and shed brown confetti on to my hair and clothes, but I am transfixed by a glossy red front door; the feeling of déjà vu overwhelming now. I want to be wrong, but know I’m not, the memories revealing themselves frame by frame as I relive that awful moment. He parked his car in the drive and then . . . oh my god . . . he let himself in with a key.

  I cross the road and lean against the wall beside the red door, my head aching, my legs now weak, my thoughts spinning away from me. He had a key, given to him by whoever is inside, whoever is going to answer the red door. This isn’t a drunken one-night stand, this isn’t even an affair, this is a whole other life. I lift my hand to knock, my fingers trembling as I press the bell too. I hear her approach, the heavy footsteps, her fingers turning the latch.

  ‘Jo!’ she says, stepping forward to catch me as I fall towards her.

  I wake on the floor of the hallway; a space so confined I’m amazed I appear unhurt, although as Anna coaxes me towards the small front room I feel jarred, like the ache of an oncoming illness. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her; not the first words I’d expected to say.