by Leah Mercer
I didn’t mind, really. Having her watch over me was comforting, and her stamp of approval really meant something. She’d never sanction anyone who might hurt me; we both knew the pain that came alongside that. Thank God she and Mark clicked straight away. I’ll never forget how she leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘He’s a keeper,’ within minutes of meeting him.
And she was right: he is a keeper. I know that with every fibre of my being. I won’t let him go, he must realise that, the same way I know he wouldn’t let me go, either.
‘Hiya!’ Sophie’s boisterous voice bursts across the line. ‘Just wanted to tell you don’t worry about babysitting. Asher’s actually going to be home tomorrow night, for once, so he can keep an eye on Flora.’
For a second, I’ve absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. Then I remember that tomorrow’s Friday and that Mark and I had promised to take care of my niece in the evening so my sister could go to a friend’s baby shower. With a husband who works every God-given hour in a City law firm, I know how much Sophie looks forward to any child-free excursion. And Mark always jumps at the chance to babysit Flora, which has lodged him even more firmly into Sophie’s good books.
Eight-year-old Flora absolutely dotes on Mark and always has done . . . and Mark dotes on her just as much. Mark can spend hours playing with her menagerie of toys, watching endless YouTube videos and even singing karaoke to One Direction (shudder). It’s surprising, given that Mark isn’t exactly a paragon of pop knowledge, but it’s so endearing. Watching Mark with my niece always makes me excited for the day when we might have kids – the day we will have kids.
‘Oh, okay,’ I say, happy that she’s cancelled before I had to. I can’t imagine Mark spending the whole night away from me, but even if he does come home in the next hour, there’s no way I’d have the mental or physical stamina now to make it through the evening with Flora. Mark and I will both be exhausted after tonight, and we’ll need to regroup – to pull ourselves in tightly again and remember what it is that makes us so good: our connectedness, how we’re so in sync with the other’s wants and desires and how we hold our marriage sacred.
‘Mark will be disappointed,’ I say to keep up the ruse. It’s not a lie. He would be disappointed. Just yesterday he was saying that he hadn’t seen Flora for ages and he couldn’t wait to hear her news. I shake my head so hard my neck throbs with pain. What could have changed since then? What happened?
Maybe an argument with someone at the bank? Or . . . I shake my head again, wincing at the pain. Mark would never let anything from work spill over into our relationship; he’s not the type to release his stress at home. If he does say anything about work, it’s funny stories about customers or colleagues. I tried a few times, back when we first got together, to get his advice on department politics, or even just vent when one class gave me a particularly low score on my teaching evaluation, but Mark got so incredibly upset – almost more than I did – that I took a page from his book, keeping any work worries away from us. I like how our place is untainted, how our relationship is a refuge. And anyway, I can talk to Sophie about work if I need to.
He’ll be back any minute, I tell myself for the millionth time, staring at the door handle as if it might turn this instant.
‘Everything all right?’ Sophie’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I jerk upright, like she has a direct line into my mind.
‘Oh, fine. All good here.’ My voice trembles a bit, and I cross my fingers, hoping she hasn’t picked up on it. ‘Just busy . . . You know.’
‘Do I ever. Work has been crazy.’ Sophie runs her own online children’s clothing shop since being made redundant from a marketing job a few years ago. ‘And Asher hasn’t been much help lately, either. I don’t even know where he is half the time. Sometimes I’d give my right arm for a job like yours, to escape to a proper office every day.’
I stay silent, because even though a university setting is far from a ‘proper office’, it is an escape. I can’t think of a better job than one where you get to read, research and discuss books all day. And actually, the university brought Mark and me together. I was giving a public lecture at the department one evening on Thomas Hardy and Mark approached me afterwards to say how much he’d enjoyed it. He’d never had the chance to go to university, he’d said, and he wanted to start reading the classics to make up for lost time.
We talked for a few minutes before he asked me out for coffee, and despite hearing Sophie in my mind (he’s a stranger! You’ve only just met him!), I couldn’t help saying yes. His soft brown eyes seemed kind, and I could tell by his questions that he was definitely intelligent.
The night was wet and windy and, as usual, I’d forgotten my umbrella. As we stepped outside to make our way home, Mark sheltered me under his. A sudden gust flipped it inside out, leaving us exposed to the elements, and he quickly ushered me out of the storm and into the glowing lights of a nearby cafe. Dripping wet and cold, we sipped our steaming hot chocolates, hunkering down on a sofa as rain lashed the windowpanes. The chocolate warmed our insides, the mugs our fingers, and it seemed so natural when Mark reached out to take my hand. The staff started stacking chairs and sweeping the floor, but we didn’t budge. Somehow, we knew we’d found what we’d been looking for.
About time, I’d thought.
There’s a shriek in the background at Sophie’s end followed by a loud bang.
‘Oh God, what’s she broken now? Right, I need to go. Have a good weekend. Talk soon.’ And with that, Sophie clicks off.
‘Bye,’ I say, staring at the phone as silence throbs in my ears. We used to love the quiet of our place, lying on the sofa with our bodies intertwined . . . no need for words to cloud the air. But now the silence presses down on me, a void that needs to be filled. I get up slowly and cross to the window. I stare hard at the street, willing my husband to appear from around the corner, but the pavement below stays empty.
I sit down. I stretch out on the sofa, I curl up, then I gaze down at the mobile again, my fingers itching to touch the screen. I won’t call him – I don’t need to. He’ll be home soon – back here. Back with me, in our world, where he belongs.
CHAPTER THREE
Anna
Time ticks by, but the door doesn’t open. I switch on the TV to view the film we’d planned to watch, an innocuous romantic comedy with a guaranteed happy ending, forcing myself to pay attention since I’ll need to give Mark a summary when he returns. But all too soon the credits scroll up the screen, and I’m still alone.
Panic and fear swell inside of me when I realise it’s almost midnight and Mark is still out there in the dark. Where on earth could he be? It’s impossible to imagine him sleeping anywhere other than here. Since we married, I can count the nights we have each spent away from home on two hands . . . all for work-related events. I would have loved to travel and see the world together – I’d have done a gap year in a heartbeat if I’d had the nerve (and the money) – but Mark wanted to use any extra income to pay down the mortgage on our flat and save for a house. I had to agree it was the most mature, if not adventurous, option.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I mumble, grabbing my mobile that’s resting on a cushion by my head. Whatever the reason he left – whatever the reason he asked me not to contact him – this is still the same man who is building a future with me. I hold my breath as I bring up his contact details and hit ‘Call’, my heart beating so loudly I can feel it pounding in my ears. As I listen to the phone ring, an odd buzzing sound comes from beside the door. I follow the noise to the side table, my mouth falling open when I open a drawer to see . . . Mark’s mobile.
His voicemail clicks in and I end the call, reaching down slowly to draw out his phone. That settles it, then – he’s definitely coming home, I think with a smile, remembering how he’s forever telling me to make sure I have my phone with me in case I need to call. Any minute now he’ll burst back inside, shaking his head with that warm smile of his and telling me he must have l
ost his mind. Not only did he leave me, but he left his phone, too! I’ll roll my eyes – Mark has a way of making even the worst situations into fodder for cheesy sayings – and throw my arms around him, banishing the past few hours from my mind.
I sink down on to the sofa, my phone on one side of me and Mark’s on the other, and stare at the door. Another film ends, and then another, and as the morning breakfast shows cheerily chirp their way into the new day, my certainty is punctured by little darts of doubt . . . and fear. It’s almost eight o’clock now and Mark is still gone. My husband left suddenly, taking nothing with him – not even his mobile, his connection to the outside world. Leaving everything I know he holds dear. Leaving me.
I stand up and stare out the window, trying not to panic. Mark has never been one to share his feelings. He’s generally always in a good mood, but there are times when he sinks into himself, turning quiet and sombre. His silences make me nervous and jittery, and I used to try to talk to him, to coax him to open up. Gradually, though, I learned to trust him . . . trust that he’d return to himself – return to me – and he always did. But now . . . could this be the one time he’s shut himself off for good?
No, I can’t think that. I won’t.
I drop back on to the sofa and take a deep breath. I know my husband. I know he loves me and loves our life. Whatever has happened – whatever he believes has happened – I have absolute certainty that we can fix it, that we’ll want to fix it . . . together. Nothing is as important as us.
My mind flips back to our second date. Mark had asked me out for dinner just two days after we’d first met, saying he couldn’t wait to see me again. Sophie had smirked when I’d told her that, telling me to make sure I’d actually shaved my legs for once (it’d been a while, I’d had to admit) because I was finally going to get some action. I’d rolled my eyes, because even if it had been ages, I hadn’t been ready to jump into bed with a man I’d only had coffee with – unlike Sophie, who’d shagged her way through half of Reading Uni, if her stories were anything to go by. I’d never been into one-night stands. I found it hard to let myself go and just have fun.
But Mark, well . . . Mark had been different from all those other guys who’d filled our dates with talking about themselves, as if I were simply an add-on to their world. Mark had looked at me (not my cleavage). He’d asked questions and actually listened to my answers. My job, my life: he’d wanted to know it all. And after we’d polished off our delicious chocolate bombes, he’d taken my hand and told me he wasn’t interested in mucking around. He wanted to find a person who was real, a person to spend his future with.
I’d nodded, relief flooding through me that I’d finally found someone on the same page – someone I could really see myself with twenty years from now. Someone I could trust.
I still trust him. I still trust us. And even if I’ve no idea where he spent the night (God, that sounds strange), when nine o’clock strikes, I know where to find him. Come hell or high water – which did happen once when the bank flooded – he’s always made it to work well before the opening time. He has the keys and he hates to keep people waiting outside. Whatever’s happening in his personal life, he’ll be there in about an hour.
And so will I.
I grab my mobile and leave a quick message that I won’t be coming in to work today – thankfully, I don’t have lectures – then pad into the bedroom, relief making my muscles less rigid. Soon all this will be over. Soon my husband will put his arms around me, will tell me whatever’s plaguing him, will let me in. And then, together, we’ll go home again.
I run a hand through my hair, grimacing as it meets with tangles and knots. Mark’s never particularly cared about what I wear, saying I look gorgeous whatever state I’m in. But I can hardly show up at his work looking like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, although after my restless night and in the aftermath of the adrenaline that had been coursing through me, that’s exactly how I feel. I wrinkle my nose as I examine my sweat-stained T-shirt: I don’t smell so great, either. I need a quick shower, something to wash away the horror of last night and start afresh.
I peel off my clothes, my skin looking even paler than usual in the grey morning light filtering into the bedroom. A memory bubbles up of how Mark would often stand behind me here as I undressed, wrapping his arms around my stomach and pulling me up against him, whispering into my ear that he liked me best with nothing on. And then . . . then he’d lower me on to the bed and we’d make love, the soft, dove-grey duvet cushioning our bodies.
Sophie was right – I did get lucky that night with Mark, and the sex ten years later is every bit as wonderful as it was that first time. He has a way of making me feel so cherished, like I’m the most important and valuable thing in the world to him, and even though I was beyond nervous all that time ago, I couldn’t help opening up and abandoning my fears and worries under his thorough ministrations. The bond between us felt so real – so solid – that I gave myself to him completely.
I throw open the wardrobe now, averting my eyes from the row upon row of Mark’s shirts – shirts he hasn’t taken with him. For a second I wonder what he’s wearing to work today, then I push the thought from my mind. I can’t linger on any doubts or uncertainties; I need to keep moving. I dress quickly in jeans and a jumper, then run a brush through my hair, grab my keys and close the door behind me.
Outside, the air is heavy and still, smelling of damp, diesel and the pungent odour of rotting leaves. I hurry down the quiet, tree-lined roads towards the high street, past huge houses hiding behind high iron gates. Even though we’ve lived here for almost all of our ten years together, I still can’t believe how lucky we were to nab a spacious two-bedroom flat in this area.
‘It really is an ideal place to raise a family,’ the estate agent had said, and Mark had squeezed my hand as we’d smiled at each other like one of those happy couples straight from a TV property show. With good schools, proximity to one of the biggest open spaces in London and a villagey feel about it, it was everything the estate agent had promised. Highgate is the perfect place to start a family – fingers crossed it happens soon. Mark tries to hide it, but I can tell he’s getting a little anxious that nothing’s happened yet. Sophie doesn’t help – she’s always regaling us with stories of how she got pregnant on the first try. It’s normal for it to take a while, though, as I keep telling Mark.
Sweat drips down my brow and I wipe it away as I climb the steep incline towards the row of shops. Rooftops rear up in front of me and I hurry over the crest of the hill, eager to glimpse the lights of the bank on this dark autumn morning – a beacon guiding me to my husband. But the closer I get, the more that panic scrabbles at my gut. There’s no welcoming brightness; no lit-up adverts on the bank’s windows featuring smiling faces of happy customers. The building is dark and sullen, like it’s crossing its arms and frowning at me.
‘Where is he?’ I ask one of Mark’s colleagues hovering outside the locked door. The smoke from her cigarette clogs the air and the smell turns my stomach. ‘Where’s Mark?’ I crane my neck to look inside the building, hoping to catch sight of something, but the foyer is shadowy and still.
The woman stubs out her cigarette and shakes her head. ‘You tell me. Wherever he is, he’s not here.’
I lean back against the door, my heart sinking so fast it feels like I’m going to pass out. I was so sure he’d be here, so certain this would be the end of that terrible night – a night in which we were cut off from each other. If he’s not at work, then where the hell is he? Maybe he’s just taking the day off, I tell myself, despite the fact that, like me, Mark hasn’t had a sick day in forever.
The rattle of keys makes me straighten up, and for a second, hope leaps inside me. ‘Mark?’
‘Just me.’
I turn my head and see that it’s the assistant manager (Ahmed, I think it is).
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says to his colleague, who just nods and pops some chewing gum in her mouth
. ‘I only got the call to come and open up this morning.’ He turns towards me. ‘I just heard that Mark resigned. Head office called me about eight. Bit sudden – I hope everything’s all right. Are you here to pick up his things?’
Resigned? I stare at Ahmed and gulp in air, but my breath still comes shallow and fast. Mark has quit? My husband doesn’t love this job, that much is true, but he does love what it provides: a pay cheque, security and savings for the future. The Mark I know wouldn’t trade those in for anything. I gulp as my heart starts beating fast, and the fear I’ve tried to keep at bay balloons inside me.
‘Anna?’ Ahmed unlocks the door and motions me forwards, then flicks on the lights. ‘Come in. Do you remember where Mark’s office is? This way.’
I blink against the harsh fluorescent lighting, numbly following Ahmed past the tellers’ counter and through a glass door, where Mark’s metallic desk gleams. The empty walls and barren desktop are in sharp contrast to the comfortably cluttered environs of our flat. Just our engagement photo perched by the computer monitor graces the room’s clean confines. I catch my breath as I look down at it, trying not to read too much into the fact that he has left this behind, too.
We both prefer this photo to our official wedding picture, which looks tense and staged – in fact, I don’t even know where it is right now. I squint down at our two glowing faces. God, we look young. My cheeks are flushed with happiness and cheap cava, and Mark’s eyes stare steadily at the camera as if he’s trying to telegraph that this, right here, is exactly what he wants.
I close my eyes, and I can almost feel the soft air of that summer evening – hear the swoosh of traffic on the road outside my tiny studio flat. We were drinking kir and stretched out on the sofa after stuffing ourselves with the gnocchi I’d managed not to burn in my minuscule kitchen. Something about the tropical temperatures – and, okay, maybe the bottle of cava we’d shared earlier – had cast a spell on us, making the night seem almost otherworldly. Out of nowhere, Mark pulled me on to his lap and whispered into my ear that he wanted to make me his wife.