by Leah Mercer
We’d only been dating for a few months and we’d never even talked about marriage, but I didn’t pause before saying yes. I loved him, I loved what we had together and I wanted it to stay that way . . . forever. And when he slid the ring on to my finger, something clicked into place within me: a sense of security, of safety. Finally, my life felt anchored.
The rest of the night was a blur. We finished our kir, then Mark offered to pop down to the off-licence for some celebratory bubbles. I went with him, not wanting to let him out of my sight for an instant. I just wanted to clutch him close, to feel the bond between us – the bond that would always be there.
It was at the off-licence that the photo was taken. Unable to stop my happiness from spilling over, I blurted out our news to the man behind the counter, who offered to snap the picture. We posed against the streetlight outside, on the corner of a busy road – not exactly the most romantic location, but it didn’t matter. The glow of our faces bathed in the soft light from the lamp above us made the photo seem like pure magic. And that’s what I want to hang on to: that bubble of happiness, unsullied by anything. That’s what I need to protect.
‘Not much to take with you, I guess,’ Ahmed says, cutting into my thoughts. ‘Mark was never one to linger here. He’d just finish the work and go home. He always said he had something better to get back to.’ He grins at me, and despite everything, I can’t help smiling back. I can picture Mark saying just that – Sophie would always tell me he’d win the award when it came to cheesy sayings. I have to admit, I quite like it.
‘He was a great boss,’ Ahmed says. ‘Although I did notice he was a bit off his game these past couple of weeks. I’d never seen him take so much time off in all the years I’ve known him. Sneaking away to interviews, I guess?’ He winks. ‘Anyway, we’ll miss him around here. Please give him our best, and tell him to pop by and visit.’
Mark took time off? I nod at Ahmed in a daze as his words float over me, then I scoop up the photo. I say goodbye and stumble out to the street. My legs weaken and I slump down on to a grimy bench, struggling to absorb the fact that my husband has left his job. What the hell happened? Because it has to be something, right? People don’t make such radical moves without a reason, especially not someone as steady as Mark. He’s been at the bank for years; he’s been with me for years. What on earth would compel him to throw that away?
Throw me away?
I try to breathe through the confusion and worry crashing through me. However much I don’t want to believe it, this isn’t like those other times when Mark simply went quiet, then came back, and our wonderful world remained intact. Now it seems my husband is trying to dismantle the life we carefully built, the life we cherish. I can’t believe it’s true, but it is. And I won’t stay quiet. I won’t let him do this to us. Whatever he’s going through, he needs me to be strong for him . . . for us. I glance down at the photo and our two smiling faces.
‘Till death do us part,’ I say, shivering in the cool autumn air. I meant the pledge then, and no matter what my husband is going through, I mean it even more now.
CHAPTER FOUR
Anna
I hurry back to our flat, as if the space we inhabit might tell me something about where Mark’s gone – as if being surrounded by our treasured items will impart clarity. I set down our engagement photo in pride of place on the oak coffee table and gaze around our lounge. The corners are crammed with bookcases stuffed full of novels we’ve devoured and discussed, and the walls are covered in paintings we’ve carefully selected. We even hemmed the stupidly long curtains together, swearing as we pricked our fingers with needles (it’s safe to say neither of us is a skilled sewer).
I’ve never lived somewhere I’ve loved so much, and even though I know Mark longs for a proper house when we have kids, this flat will always be the first place I finally felt . . . safe, I guess. Even after my father came back, it seemed like we were living on the edge, as if one wrong move might send him off again.
I close my eyes as memories swarm my brain, memories of the day my father left. It was summer, and Sophie and I shared a room back then. We woke up early, like we always did in the school holidays, full of excitement at the day ahead. Mum always had something wonderful planned; she had a way of making even a walk in the woods feel magical.
But that day we didn’t spring from our beds. That day we stayed inside our room with the door closed, the duvet up to our ears as we tried to block out the sound of our mother sobbing. We didn’t know why she was crying, of course – not until we finally crawled from our safe haven and padded down the stairs, still in our pyjamas. Not until our mother faced us, eyes red and swollen, and said our father had gone.
We stared at her, not sure what she meant, until she gathered us in her arms and started crying again. Then we knew. He had left her . . . left us. She said he’d be in touch with us, and he was – every few weeks or so, by phone. But of course it wasn’t the same. He really had gone.
I shake my head now, thinking that, all these years later, I still don’t understand why my father left so suddenly. We asked, of course, but Mum would only say they needed a break from each other. A break? I thought. How do you take a break from marriage? Sophie just scoffed, saying Dad wanted to ‘dick around’ – that of course there was another woman. Wasn’t there always? The words sounded funny coming from a twelve-year-old’s mouth.
I wrap my arms around myself, as if I can shield my heart from the questions battering my brain. Has Mark taken off like my father? Does he want a break . . . a break from me, from our marriage? And try as I might, I can’t stop Sophie’s words from ringing in my head, her words about another woman. She’s wrong, I know she is. There isn’t always another woman, but . . .
A memory from a few days ago niggles at my brain. Mark’s mobile rang, and I went to answer it like I usually do if it’s closest to me. But this time he lunged at it before I could get there, then took the phone into the bedroom. I couldn’t hear much through the door – the high buzz of a woman’s voice, and then his own lower tone – and when I asked casually who it was, he just shrugged and told me it was one of those annoying telemarketers. He looked so tense that I hadn’t wanted to force the issue, so I let it go, even though I knew he was hiding something.
I grab Mark’s phone and enter the password, my cheeks burning. I’d never felt the urge to snoop on his mobile, not even last night when I first found his phone. But back then I’d believed he’d be home again in a matter of hours. Now, after discovering he’s quit his job, I realise it may not be that simple.
I can’t believe I’m doing this, I think, holding my breath as I scan his texts and phone calls. There’s not much there, just a few messages and missed calls from me in the past couple of days, and then nothing before that. That’s not uncommon: Mark always kept his mobile ‘neat and tidy’, unlike my phone, which is crammed with texts from years ago.
I look though his recent numbers, but once again there’s nothing . . . everything has been deleted, as per usual. I bite my lip as Ahmed’s voice runs through my mind, saying how Mark has had a lot of time off lately – time off I knew nothing about. There have been a few days when Mark had said he needed to work late, which is odd since he rarely works past six. And he did beg off making love a couple of times recently, which is also completely unlike him, especially when we’ve been trying so hard to have a baby.
My head pounds and nausea churns my stomach. I put my hands to my temples and focus on breathing in and out, in and out. I can’t actually suspect Mark of cheating on me, can I? Mark, my husband, who has spent the past ten years making me – making us – his number one priority?
I jump up and grab our laptop, the computer we share at home. I don’t know what I’m looking for and I still can’t believe I’m doing this, but I just need to . . . check. Sophie always says it’s strange that we share a computer, but I don’t think so. We even have the same password: our anniversary, of course. Like Mark’s phone, though, I’
ve never delved into his email. I’ve never needed to.
I type in Mark’s username and password, my face hot – not with the shame of snooping this time, but with a mix of fear and panic. As I click through his messages, I don’t know whether to cover my eyes or strain even harder to see, but there’s nothing there, anyway . . . even his junk mail has been emptied. If he was up to something, though, it wouldn’t be the brightest idea to leave evidence lying around on a shared computer. I log in to our joint bank account on the off-chance he’s withdrawn money – a long shot since we never touch it for anything other than household expenses, using our personal accounts for everything else. The usual mortgage, bills and grocery debits fill the screen, and I slam the laptop lid closed.
A mad kind of desperation sweeps through me and I jump to my feet. I start upending the sofa cushions, rummaging through the cupboards, flipping through books . . . looking for something, anything, to sweep away my fears – something that will give me a clue to my husband’s whereabouts. Inside the bedroom, I shake out socks and pants, unfold trousers and T-shirts and rifle through shirts. But all I uncover is a forest of folded receipts: this one from the Chinese takeaway around the corner that gave us both stomach pains for the rest of the weekend; this one for the extra bookcase from IKEA we had to order for our overflow of novels. Snippets of an ordinary, wonderful life that are now tainted with uncertainty.
I slump to the floor, staring at the mess around me as despair and frustration filter in. I’ve torn the place to bits and I’ve found nothing either to fuel or allay my doubts; nothing to bring me closer to finding or understanding my husband. I’m surrounded by the unremarkable minutiae of our usual life, but everything has changed.
CHAPTER FIVE
Anna
Somehow, I make it through the weekend. I hole up inside the flat, not even leaving when I run out of milk, just on the off-chance Mark might return. Thoughts spin through my head and I clutch at each one, trying desperately to make sense of my husband’s disappearance – without thinking it might be another woman, that is.
Has he had some kind of nervous breakdown? Is he one of those people you sometimes hear about . . . someone who seems perfectly normal, but then suddenly cracks? I shake my head, struggling to apply that theory to my calm, steady husband. But then, it couldn’t have been my calm, steady husband who jacked in his life, could it? Fear shoots into me as I wonder if he has cracked – and if maybe he’s done something to hurt himself.
Mark wouldn’t do that, I tell myself as my heart beats fast. He can’t bear to hurt a fly, let alone inflict pain on himself. Even so, I reach for my mobile and google the numbers of the local hospitals, foot tapping as I call and wait for them to tell me if he’s there or not. I’m not quite sure which answer to hope for: I want to find him and hold him close, but I can’t bear the thought of him injuring himself, for whatever reason.
I let out a breath when I put down the phone twenty minutes later. Wherever Mark is, he’s not lying alone in a hospital bed. Maybe . . . maybe I should try the police? But say what? My husband told me he was leaving me, and – surprise! – he left! It’s not like he’s vanished unexpectedly.
Try as I might to keep my doubts from growing, I can’t stop thinking of that phone call I overheard, of Mark’s time off work, of the nights Mark didn’t want to have sex. It’s impossible to picture my loyal husband cheating on me, but . . . I could never have pictured him leaving our life, either. I barely sleep, unable to get comfortable in the huge, empty expanse of our bed, and after calling in sick again on Monday morning, I decide I finally need to talk to Sophie.
It’s been strange keeping all this to myself for so long – Sophie’s the one I always chat to when I’m upset or need help. I’ve never talked to her about Mark, though . . . I’ve never needed to, and somehow it would’ve felt like breaching the boundaries of my marriage. But I know she loves him, and she loves us together. And right now, I’m in desperate need of reassurance, not to mention direction.
I throw on an old jumper and a pair of jeans, then grab my jacket and head for the door. Sunlight streams through the trees and the air is so fresh it hurts my lungs. It’s a gorgeous day, but I’m too tired to contemplate walking the short distance to my sister’s, so instead I head to the car. I fit the key into the lock and swing open the door, sliding into the driver’s seat. I’m miles from the wheel and I ratchet the seat forward, thinking it’s been ages since I’ve driven. There’s no need to in London – it’d take about twice as long for me to get to work, anyway – and Mark’s always driven us on the odd times we have taken the car anywhere. This is fine by me, since the only time we came close to arguing was when Mark taught me to drive.
I was happy to take public transport, but Mark insisted I learn to drive, just in case I was ever caught in a situation where I might need to. I was surprised by just how much I enjoyed it: the wheel in my hand, the rumble of the engine in front of me, the way the tyres hugged the road as it curved. I loved to accelerate, watching the trees and houses blur as the car gained speed.
But Mark had other ideas, urging me to slow down if the speedometer crept anywhere near the speed limit. I longed to sit back and enjoy the drive, but he peppered me with constant reminders to pay better attention, turn the indicator on earlier, watch for the upcoming zebra crossing . . . I had to clamp my lips closed to stop my growing impatience spilling out. I had never been more relieved than when I finally got my licence and the lessons came to an end.
I’m about to put the key in the ignition when I catch sight of the satnav. Mark usually keeps it tucked away in the glove compartment, but for some reason it’s still stuck to the dash. I bite my lip, wondering if it might give me some clue as to Mark’s whereabouts. Mark has driven this car somewhere recently; the satnav wouldn’t still be out if he hadn’t. I flick it on, mentally crossing my fingers. The screen comes to life and I touch ‘Recent Trips’, my legs jiggling as I wait for the information to appear. Finally, one name comes up: ‘Margo’. I blink at the letters, trying to breathe through the nausea swirling inside of me – through the questions and dread now hammering at my skull. Margo? Who the hell is that?
My hand shakes as I reach out to touch the screen, and an address in East Finchley – just minutes from here – pops up. I sink back into the seat, my mouth suddenly dry, my stomach churning. I’ve never heard Mark mention the name Margo – I would have remembered, because he rarely talks about other people, not even his mum and dad. And to the best of my knowledge, he doesn’t know anyone in East Finchley. I didn’t think he’d ever been there . . . although this satnav clearly proves me wrong.
So who is she? Is he there with her now? Was my sister right and there is always another woman?
Before I can even think about it, I pull away from the kerb and into the street, following the satnav’s calm directions towards East Finchley. Rush-hour traffic clogs the streets, and I go as fast as I can, lurching around cars and running through amber lights. Mark’s voice rings in my mind, admonishing me, telling me to slow down, but I can’t. I need to get there, to prove that whoever Margo is, my husband wouldn’t betray me – wouldn’t betray us and the life we are building together.
The closer I get to Margo’s, the harder it is to breathe. I want to find my husband; I need to make sure he’s okay. But what if . . . ? I swallow as I turn the car down a quiet street, the satnav showing I’m only a minute away. I slow as the screen indicates another turn, then spin the wheel and stop.
I must have gone the wrong way because I’m faced with a sign saying ‘East Finchley Cemetery’. I stare at the satnav, then back at the sign, and then at the screen again. No, the arrow is showing that I’ve reached my destination, the very point that Mark has called ‘Margo’.
I start up the engine and drive slowly down the path, pulling up in front of a stone chapel. Even though it’s warm inside the car, I shiver. Today is a journey into the unknown – into a place I never even knew existed . . . a place Mark hid fr
om me. And I’m not sure I’m ready for what I’ll find.
CHAPTER SIX
Anna
I turn off the engine and yank on the handbrake – Mark constantly reminded me of its crucial importance – then open the car door. Cold air swirls around me and I pull my jacket closer, as if to protect myself from what is ahead. I don’t know what I’ll uncover here, but I do know one thing: my husband has been places and seen people that I never knew about. He’s kept things from me, and the relationship I was so sure of, so proud of being one hundred per cent honest and open . . . wasn’t.
Part of me wants to get in the car again and drive home, but I know that even if I do that, I can’t go back. Whether there’s someone else in his life or not, things are different now. Our world has changed. I take a deep breath, trying to stay steady despite feeling like the ground is shaking beneath my feet.
I head towards the chapel and push open the heavy wooden door, praying there’s someone inside. Thankfully, I’m in luck: a bespectacled man is sweeping the floor in front of the altar. His lifts his head as I approach.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so.’ I swallow. ‘I’m looking for someone called Margo?’ It’s an idiotic question, I know, but I’ve no idea if she’s an employee, if this is where Mark meets her . . . or if she’s even alive, given the location.
‘Well, I’m the only person here . . . still breathing, that is.’ He smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle.
‘Okay, well, could you help me find a gravestone?’ I might as well start there.