“Good morning, Charlotte,” She says to me. “I was hoping to catch a few words with your husband about the fundraiser tonight.” She plods on, not stopping for any great interaction.
“Be my guest,” I offer, arms spread as if welcoming her onto our land. She pats me on the arm as she passes me, and gives me a little side smile. Of all the people I remember being there after my ‘accident’, she was the one who was always popping in to visit. I cannot count the number of meals she had plated up by her maid and which she brought to me personally. Of all the people I know, she seems the least bothered by the presence of a mentally ill person in her street.
“Will we see you tonight too?” she asks cautiously as she steps onto my driveway.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say in response. She smiles at me, all her wonky teeth showing, brown from her zealous smoking habit and she chortles a chesty laugh. She looks and sounds like a donkey. I spot Gregory in the background looking in no way reassured that at my attendance was guaranteed.
I know that I knocked the door loud enough, but for the several seconds I am standing there on the doorstep, I wonder if Marianne isn’t going to let me in. I haven’t seen her leave the house all week since our afternoon out, and I am certain that she is trying to ignore me. But then I hear the chink of the keys behind the door and realise that she is unbolting it.
She cracks open the door, not fully, not allowing me passage into her world. The door is a barrier here, and yet I have spent so many hours sat opposite Dr. Abrams who tells me to open the door, let me in, be open to new ways to deal with the pain. Marianne is still in the phase where she wants to close the world out, blockade its entrance. She is like Hades, the Greek God of the underworld. She wants to stop things getting out, wants them buried. To pretend that reality doesn’t touch her.
“Marianne,” I say with a huge toothy grin. “Where have you been all week?” I am taking a chance here because I don’t exactly remember the days between our meeting and now. Today is my first lucid vomit free day.
“I just stayed home,” she says closing the door an inch, covering herself.
“You went home?” I am sure she didn’t. I am sure she means here, but I cannot let this small detail go by without some mention. “Why didn’t you stay here?”
“I did stay here.” She isn’t following me. Maybe it’s the Elavil. Sometimes it used to make me fuzzy around the edges too. Her eyes are squinting. She is thinking.
“Oh, but you said you went home?” I flicked my finger about back and forth as if making a mental calculation between her house and the one in which she stands. “Oh, never mind, never mind. I understand now.” I see that she understands it now too. I watch as her head drops a fraction as she hears my words in her head for a second time and finally understands my meaning. I have made her feel bad. Perfect.
I move forward with my big smile reattached. “Let’s have a cup of tea, shall we?” and before she can suggest otherwise I am through the door and walking through the hallway. I take a quick peak in the lounge as I pass through to the kitchen, scanning to see if there is any evidence of wife-removal today, but all photographs are clearly displayed as Mary Wexley intended them to be. Maybe this is why Marianne looks so blue today. Maybe this is how she looks every Friday before she leaves and goes back to her own life. Maybe the depression really kicks in on a Friday. I see a bag at the bottom of the stairs and realise she has already packed her things. Her presence in the house has been reduced to nothing more than an overnight bag and footsteps.
“I was thinking about leaving soon.”
“There’s no rush,” I call out from the entrance of the kitchen, although I know in reality that there is. “We have time,” I add. “How do you take it?”
“I’m not sure we have time for a drink, Charlotte,” she says, nibbling at the skin around her thumb. I pull a Ziploc bag out from my pocket and pull out my own clean mug. I turn to face her holding the milk and I smile again, pitifully this time as if I appreciate her concern. As if I am pleading for her to relax.
“Come on now,” I say, “how long can a quick cup of tea take to drink? What time will she be back?” No point beating around the bush pretending. We both know why our time together here is limited and why she feels like it is wrapping itself around her neck and strangling her.
“That’s it, I don’t know. John tells me to leave by twelve on a Friday. By midday.” She looks up to the clock. It’s about seven minutes before twelve. “Imagine if I was still here?” I already am.
“Listen. I have never seen her back before two." This is a lie. "So relax. Drink your tea. There is something I want to talk to you about.”
Before long I have suggested that the chairs in the kitchen are very uncomfortable, and she nodded wearily as if she could easily say, yeah, tell me about it. So I get her into the lounge. Being somewhat seasoned in what to expect from a therapist, I am certain that a nice comfortable chair, cushions which envelope and hug you, and a few strategically placed triggers will get her feeling back to her chatty self that I had enjoyed so much on Tuesday. I wrap my feet up under me as we sit down, my shoes kicked off. It’s cold in here today. She hasn’t been able to light the fire because nobody is supposed to be here.
“Marianne, about the other day.” She looks sheepish, her lips pursed, her doubts rising. “I’m really sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” She says, her eyes turned inwards making her appear confused. An apology was not what she was expecting.
“Well, where to start? I got you drunk for one, your car was left in town which was no doubt a problem for John, and then about the photographs.”
“The photographs?”
“I turned them all back up, and well,” I look away, as if the burden of truth is almost too much, “John sort of wriggled it out of me. I hope I didn’t get you in trouble.” I sip my tea and wait for a response.
“Ah,” she huffs, “that’s how he found out. It’s me that should be apologising. What a mess I got into. I can’t even remember the things I said.” It is always most convenient I feel when drunks lose their memory. “I have been embarrassed to run into you all week.”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” I say, winking at her so she realises I am playing with her on friendly terms.
“No. Not at all. You were very good to me. You took care of me.”
“Did you get in trouble?”
She gulped hard, before shrugging her shoulders. “You could say that. He wasn’t very happy that I had been discussing our relationship. He is very private. And the photos. He didn’t know about that, so yes, he was very annoyed. Hurt I think.” Her voice was very well controlled now that she was sober, and she appeared more alert now that I was sat here with her. There was no trace of an accent.
“There is something else too, Marianne. I want us to be friends, so I can’t start hiding things from you now.” She waited, her lips tight, swallowing hard. “I saw the Elavil. I was there when you took it.”
“I assumed you must have been,” she said trying to look away from me. She looked ashamed of her need for such medication. I have never felt ashamed of being depressed. It was just a fact for me. It must be a lot harder if you feel ashamed by it.
“It’s not a problem, Marianne. You know about my history, and now I know yours. It makes us closer. Friendlier.” I give her a little smile that shot down to my shoulder which in turn shot up to my chin. “Who is your doctor?”
“My GP looks after me.”
“No, I mean your psychiatrist.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Psychologist? Counsellor?
“No, nothing.” Brilliant. I feign shock and rub her shoulder with my still gloved hand with all the sympathy I can muster.
“So you are dealing with all of this on your own?” I shake my head left to right and tut. “Not anymore, OK? I’m here now, and I know how depression feels. I will look out for you. You will talk to me when you need to. I will make s
ure you are OK.” I think for a second she might cry. There is something welling up near the corner of her eye that looks suspiciously like a tear.
“Thank you, Charlotte. You have been very kind to me.” She too shakes her head as if she cannot quite believe it. I get the impression that Wexley has been giving her a hard time after her antics this week. I would have too is I was him.
“I would have been around sooner, but,” I think for a second before I commit, “but I was so nauseous that I couldn’t bear it.”
“You have been ill?” she asks, wiping her eyes, keen to repay the unexpected support.
“Not exactly,” I say with a cheeky grin on my face. She smiles immediately.
“Oh, Charlotte! Congratulations!” She is crying properly now and reaching out to hug me. Both reactions are unnecessary, but I play along. I think of Gregory at home and his ice cold exterior and lack of interest in our baby. I wonder if Dana has left and if he is alone with Ishiko enjoying a quick fumble. He expresses greater interest in fooling around with our maid than he does nurturing the life that is growing inside of me. “That’s wonderful news.” It’s time to leave.
“Thank you. But it is hush-hush, ok?” I say putting my finger to a set of pursed lips.
“You have my word!” I am already getting up and placing my mug back in the plastic bag and into my pocket. She watches me closely and I am quite sure she finds my actions strange, but she is so wrapped up in the excitement of genuine happiness she lets her concerns slide. I reach over for my coat which I had discarded on the side of the settee.
“OK,” I say moving towards the door. “We’ll speak next week once you are back.”
I wave as I leave the house and she is still smiling, wiping away tears. I fear that she is still watching me as I open my front door, gripping on to the thread of friendship that I have offered out. I flew into her life like a white dove, an olive branch in my mouth. She has forgotten all about the time constraints of Mary Wexley’s return, drunk on connection and friendship. It’s an intoxicating pull, I know. It is one I have felt only a few times, never more so than with Gregory on the night that I first saw him. I didn’t see any of his annoying habits that night, he was simply a perfect representation of the dream I had been courting my whole life. He offered so much promise, a life full of smiles and belonging to another person. A real person that wouldn’t leave me.
I throw my coat and scarf onto the end of the stairs and wander through the house. Silence, other than the clatter of crockery as Ishiko empties the dishwasher. I see her in the kitchen bending down and then up, plate in hand. Always one at a time. She never rushes. There is never a hint of anything other than relaxation on her face, even when faced with my husband naked in the shower. I walk through the hallway and find Gregory sitting in the drawing room, contemplating his nemesis, the bulk of water trapped in the land.
“What did Mrs. Sedgwick want?” I take a seat in the chair opposite him and wait until I am worthy of his response. It takes a while. I begin counting and breathing. I only get to twenty.
“She wanted to ask me about the Ladies of Windermere raffle tonight. She needed a confirmed list of prizes.”
“Ladies of Windermere?” It took until the count of twenty before he could talk to me. It took that long before he could bring himself to talk to me. I remember our first night together, when he spoke to me before I said anything, when he spoke to me before I even knew of his existence. Then, he could breathe the same air as me, we could sit curled up in his Queen Anne chair that we once filled together but now he manages to make appear full on his own. Back then he could touch me, hold me, push me down and kiss me in places that were private before he even knew my last name. Now it takes until the count of twenty to muster the strength to talk to me about our neighbour. I could die of insignificance if everybody wasn’t so determined that I live. I must go to my appointments this week. Look willing. It might inject a bit of faith in him. A bit of spirit. “Is that the charity that we are supporting tonight?”
“Not really,” he says as he stands and walks towards the piano. He leans against it like a gentleman with one elbow lodged on the top for no particular reason, circa 1920. If I was on a chaise longue with a cigarette in a holder the scene would be near perfect. This is his idea of perfection. He remembers his grandfather here, reclining and contemplating as a gentleman should, not engaging himself with other less meaningful tasks. This is what the brandy is for. If he wasn’t asthmatic he would add in cigars. I am surprised he doesn’t just get one out and rest it in an ashtray for effect. He has tried before. Cigarettes are OK, they don’t bother him much, but only in private. Cigarettes are not for show. They are to be hidden away, like he wishes he could do to me, but instead is forced to do to Ishiko. “They will be hosting some sort of baking day in a couple of week’s time. Raising money for disabled children. They want to have it announced tonight, get some attendees.” He speaks about it dismissively as if helping isn’t really on his agenda. He understands charity in quite a different way from most. For him it is a route in, a route higher, and a way forward. He never just gives for the sake of it. Never just to be nice. I know he couldn’t care less about the disabled children of our town. He couldn’t care less if they get to go kayaking on the lake. He doesn’t care much for the lake. Not since I drowned his beloved boat. How I could have done it, he doesn’t know. He cannot understand why I would have taken something precious to him and destroyed it like that. How could I? What a terribly inconvenient method of attempted suicide I chose. How thoughtless. “I think she will be asking you to attend.” He is looking at the photograph that I have glued down.
“OK,” I say, taking off my gloves, hoping that he doesn’t decide to pick it up. “I don’t mind that.” Ishiko glides in like an angel carrying a tray with a glass and an ice bucket with a tiny set of tongs attached, inappropriately sized for his fingers, perfect for his air of delicacy. Part of me wants him to touch the photograph, the aggressive side of me that still bargains I was right to take the boat is willing him to try to grab it. But the other half of me? Definitely not. I wonder if they know it is glued down yet. If they do they must realise who did it, and can at least proffer a guess about why. Ishiko sets the tray down on the occasional table and scuttles away like an apparition might shift into smoke or dust, leaving me uncertain if she was ever really here.
“Well she will be very pleased I am sure,” he says, walking back over and pouring his ridiculously expensive brandy into the crystal tumbler and plopping in few ice cubes, me a mix of relief and disappointment. It is a little before two in the afternoon. He is obviously not planning for anything this afternoon. He takes a seat in his chair that was once for two and is now for one and returns to his contemplation, occasionally sipping on his brandy.
“Shall we eat some lunch soon?” I fidget my feet underneath my chair, pick at my fingernails. I want to tell him that tonight we should announce the baby. I don’t want to talk about lunch. I don’t want to think about Ishiko. I want to be a pregnant woman, a pregnant wife, somebody who was desirable enough to be impregnated. “We could ask Ishiko to make us something now.”
“Are you hungry?” he asks me, surprised.
“A little.” I am not really hungry, but I see no natural break in the afternoon so far and I have already tired of lounging. Lunch will provide an interlude to the boredom, and a way to pass half an hour that is not entirely unpleasant.
“We could eat something.” He appears to be taken by the normality of my question, and he refolds the newspaper before he has even started reading it. Just two people enjoying a normal day it seems, turns him on a little. He doesn’t want excitement, he wants normal. He is smiling, so I push it further. “Then relax together and do nothing in particular.” The grin extends, and I hear a little breathy giggle sneak out.
“OK. Why not. Ishiko!” He stands and I hear Ishiko walking towards us.
“Yes?” she says as she arrives in the drawing room to a scene of er
otic normality.
“Ishiko, be a dear would, you? Rustle us up some lunch. Nothing fancy,” he says as he turns to me and winks.
“Of course, Mr. Astor.” She turns to walk away.
“Oh, Ishiko,” he says reaching over to the occasional table where his brandy and the newspaper sits. There is a small drawer in it with a keyhole and he pushes the edge of newspaper aside to get access to it. He pulls a small key from his pocket and inserts it into the lock and pulls out a few pieces of paper that look like letters, and a couple of white envelopes. “File these papers, would you.” He hands her the things he took from the drawer and she leaves before he shuts it, leaving the key in place. He chats to me about the deck at the hotel and how difficult it was to get the work completed before the reopening last week. I sit and stare out of the window in the same direction he stares. I think he is talking to me, but I don’t make any sound for the duration of sitting here and he continues to speak regardless, so he could just be thinking out loud. I watch the water, rippling along as the occasional boat sails past. I notice that when I see a boat he closes his eyes. It must be intolerable to think about what he has lost.
Within twenty minutes we are sat together eating a small homemade tart, cheese, onion, creamy and delicious, all served on a bed of balsamic dressed leaves. It was like something from the hotel. I admit it was very good. For the duration of lunch we have spoken without interruption or silence. I purposefully left the subject of the baby out of the conversation, but purposefully filtered in my plans for next week’s session with Dr. Abrams. It was as if I offered him Christmas. He reigned himself back in a few times, I could sense the wary retreat, keen not to push a delicate situation beyond its natural bounds, but by the end of lunch I dared a stretch of the fingers across the table and he didn’t even flinch when I touched him. His arm remains cold and limp but at least it is there. He feels able to be touched, rather than forced to withdraw.
Afterwards we sat in the drawing room again, separate chairs, but still together and only feet apart. For a while he watched the lake, and I gazed past it to the forest, remembering his words from this morning. To see the beauty of the forest, we must first look beyond the expanse of the water, so that’s what I did. Even though the sky is perfectly blue today and you could almost mistake it for summer – you wouldn’t because it’s a little pale for a summer blue - the trees demonstrate none of their actual colour. Today the forest is just an expanse of black, the green washed away by the damp dew of winter. Before lunchtime I thought for a while that the day had been lost, but here in this moment I feel like it was just about as good as I could possibly have hoped for. It was a start. In fact, I was so relaxed I dozed off.
PSYCHOPHILIA: A Disturbing Psychological Thriller Page 12