The Wife

by ML Roberts

  I take a sip of coffee, pick up the photograph and slide it back into my purse before I stand up, grab my bag and leave the café.

  He wasn’t here alone.

  *

  ‘Ellie?’

  I swing around, the sound of my heels click-clacking on the floor suddenly silenced as I stand still. Liam looks at me, frowning slightly. It doesn’t suit him. Frowning. It clouds his features, makes him look angry.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to see Michael.’

  His frown deepens, and he slides his hands into his pockets as he walks towards me.

  ‘Do you know where he is? Is he in his office?’

  ‘What do you need to see him for?’

  I narrow my eyes as he comes closer. ‘That’s not really your business. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Don’t you? I mean…’ He shrugs and takes another step towards me, ‘you’re the one tracking him. Aren’t you?’

  I lean back against the wall. He joins me, keeping his hands in his pockets as he stares straight ahead.

  ‘I know he’s here. In the university, in this building. I don’t know which room he’s in.’

  He takes a hand out of his pocket and rakes it back through his dark blonde hair. Liam doesn’t seem to be greying as quickly as Michael, but maybe that’s just because of his hair colour. Michael’s darker, the grey shows up more.

  ‘You need to be careful.’

  ‘You’ve already told me that.’

  He turns his head to look at me. ‘And you’re, what? Ignoring my advice?’

  ‘I’m not taking your advice, Liam.’

  ‘I don’t know where he is. Try his office.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I pull myself away from the wall and start to walk down the corridor towards Michael’s office.

  ‘Ellie, hang on. Wait a second.’

  I turn back around. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not being careful, are you?’

  ‘Was he with you?’ I ask, ignoring his comment. No, I’m probably not being as careful as I should be, but I’m losing patience now. I don’t have time to be careful.

  Liam frowns. ‘When?’

  ‘This morning. Was he with you? Did you meet him for breakfast, in a café on the corner of Elvet Bridge?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t with him. I haven’t even seen him today.’

  I drop my gaze, fold my arms. ‘Then I’m guessing he was with her.’

  ‘Maybe he was.’

  My head shoots up, my eyes meeting his. ‘Do you know something?’

  ‘I don’t know anything. And neither do you.’

  ‘I saw him with her. I told you that. I saw him, they were together.’

  He holds my gaze for a second or two before jerking his head in the direction of a room to his left. I follow him into the empty room, closing the door behind me.

  ‘If you really think he’s sleeping with someone else, Ellie, why don’t you do this properly? Hire a private detective, if you have to. A professional. Someone who can find out whatever it is you need to know without you having to do what you’re doing right now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be able to settle.’

  I lean back against the door, absentmindedly fiddling with the bandage still wrapped around my injured hand. I can’t stop. It’s oddly comforting.

  ‘This is a situation you can’t control. You might think you can, but you can’t.’

  I look at him, tilting my head to one side. ‘I think you’re wrong.’

  He comes over to me and takes hold of my right hand, which stops me from fiddling with the bandage. ‘Why don’t you let me keep an eye on him?’

  I frown, pulling my hand away from his as I slowly shake my head. ‘No. Why the hell would I let you do that?’

  ‘Because you’re making yourself ill, Ellie.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I don’t think you are.’

  ‘I don’t need your help, Liam. I’m perfectly capable of keeping an eye on my own husband.’

  ‘And if he finds out what you’re doing? That you’re tracking him?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong in wanting to know what my husband is doing behind my back.’

  ‘Let me do something, Ellie. Please.’

  He’s almost pleading with me now, but there’s something there behind his eyes that worries me slightly. I just don’t know what. I don’t know why.

  ‘If you want to keep an eye on him, keep an eye on him. I can’t really stop you, can I?’

  ‘So, does that mean you’ll stop tracking him the way you’re doing? You’ll stop listening to his phone calls? Will you stop, and let me see if I can find anything out?’

  ‘And how are you going to do that? Are you going to start following him?’

  ‘I don’t need to. We’re like brothers, remember? We’re close. He talks to me.’

  ‘You think he’s just going to tell you what’s going on?’

  ‘Just trust me. Please. If Michael’s doing anything he shouldn’t, I’ll find out, I promise.’

  ‘How do I know you’ll tell me the truth? How do I know you’re not already covering for him? Michael trusts you, Liam. If he told you anything…’ I look up at him, my eyes locking on his. ‘How good a friend are you to him, huh?’

  ‘I’m not covering for him, Jesus, Ellie, come on! If he’s having an affair I will tell you. I will get you some proof, and I will tell you. Okay?’

  I drop my gaze, but I keep my hand in my pocket despite the overwhelming urge to start pulling at that bandage again. It’s like I need to be doing something constantly, otherwise it feels like my brain will explode.

  ‘I can’t trust anyone. Not even you. This is something I need to do for myself. I need to see it for myself.’

  He reaches out, tucks a finger under my chin and tilts up my head, a small half-smile on his face. He’s a handsome man. Tall – slightly taller than Michael – with deep, steel-grey eyes, dark blonde hair that he keeps constantly pushed back off his face, and a neat beard, which isn’t something he’s always had. He used to be clean-shaven, never even letting a few days’ worth of stubble grow, but the beard suits him. I think he should keep it.

  ‘Let me help you, Ellie.’

  I look at him, up into his eyes, and I think he really would tell me if Michael was having an affair. I really think he would. I think…

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him? When you found out what I was doing, why didn’t you tell him? He’s your best friend, and like you said just now, you’re as close as brothers. So, why didn’t you tell him?’

  He doesn’t answer that. He pulls his hand away from my face and takes another step back, sliding his hands back into his pockets, but his eyes stay fixed on mine.

  ‘Did you want to? Tell him?’

  He briefly drops his gaze, lifting it after a couple of beats. ‘I don’t know. I guess there was a part of me that felt like I needed to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So we could finally put an end to this.’

  I look at him, and I don’t need to ask what he means by that because I know what he means. I know.

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’

  ‘I need to go…’

  I take hold of the door handle, but before I can turn it his hand covers mine, stopping me from doing anything. ‘When I said be careful, I meant it. What you’re doing is dangerous. You really should let me help you. If Michael is having an affair, he’s a very clever man. He isn’t stupid.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘He’ll know how to cover his tracks.’

  ‘So, I’ll uncover them.’

  ‘Let me help, Ellie. Please.’

  He isn’t pleading now, he’s almost demanding. Issuing an order. ‘Okay. Help, if that’s what you want.’

  I just want an easier life – I want my old life back, I don’t want this any more.

  He pulls his hand away from mine, lets me open the
door. ‘Does that mean you’ll take a step back?’

  I look at him again, and I nod. But I have no intention of taking any steps back, I’m just telling him what he wants to hear. It’s easier that way.

  ‘All right.’ He can’t hide the relief in his voice, and that’s fine. He can think I’m stepping back, think I’m leaving this alone, but I’m not. I’m not leaving anything alone.

  Chapter 22

  I didn’t go and find Michael in the end. I didn’t confront him. I left after that conversation with Liam. I went back to work, had lunch at the Spanish restaurant as usual and took a walk around Durham. I kept to my now obsessive routine. It’s what keeps me going. It’s why I wake up in the morning; my reason for carrying on.

  I curl my legs further up underneath me as Michael comes into the orangery, a newspaper tucked under his arm, his reading glasses pushed up onto his head.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ he asks as he sits down on the chair opposite mine and opens his newspaper. He’s asking me a question, but I don’t think he’s interested in my reply.

  ‘It’s not unusual for me to sit in here.’ I keep my gaze focused on the garden, on a flock of birds – I don’t know what kind, but they’re small, I’m guessing sparrows – huddled together on the bird table, picking away at the food I left out for them.

  I can hear Michael flicking the pages of his paper. This silence between us is something I still can’t get used to. I don’t want to get used to it. I hate it. It’s sad and frustrating, and it shouldn’t be this way.

  I stand up and walk over to the window, staring outside again, at the birds still huddled around the feeder. I keep my back to Michael, sliding my hands into my pockets. The only sound breaking the silence are the birds outside and the rustling of his newspaper as he turns the pages.

  ‘You left without breakfast again this morning.’

  I turn around, lean back against the glass and wait for him to respond. But he doesn’t; not at first.

  ‘I grabbed something at work.’

  ‘You didn’t even stop for a coffee somewhere first? You left quite early today. You had time to stop for a coffee.’

  He gets up out of his chair, moves a little closer to me, and I hold his gaze. I need to see his eyes when he tells me whatever it is he’s going to tell me next.

  ‘I went straight to work, Ellie.’

  Our eyes stay locked, and the silence surrounding us now is stifling, the air thick with his lies. I know he’s lying. He knows he’s lying. The first time he’s lied to me outright. And maybe that’s what I needed, to hear him lie to me like this.

  After a couple of loaded beats, he backs away, sits back down, opens up his newspaper like that exchange never happened. I stay backed up against the window. I keep watching him, my lying husband. My cheating, lying husband. And then I turn away again, look back out of the window, the heavy beating of my heart filling my ears, a new sound to help break the silence.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  His voice startles me slightly, and I flinch, taking a deep breath before I turn around to face him, shaking my head. ‘No. I’m fine.’

  He closes his paper, flinging it down on the table beside him. ‘Is this the way it’s going to be forever now, Ellie? The silences, the questions…’

  ‘This is my fault?’

  ‘Well, it isn’t mine.’

  I laugh. I can’t help it. I’m so fucking tired now. ‘What do you want me to do, Michael?’

  He sits forward, clasps his hands together. The look he’s giving me is verging on pitying. I don’t want his fucking pity, I want his love. His support. I want my husband back.

  ‘It hurt me, too, Ellie. Losing the baby, coming to terms with what happened to you…’ He drops his head, and I see his shoulders visibly hunch up then relax as he takes a deep breath. I still don’t understand why he finds it so difficult to talk about this. It’s confusing. When I was in hospital – when they told me we’d lost the baby, told me I may never be able to conceive again – he was there for me. He cried with me, held me; for those first few days, he was the husband I needed. And then it all changed. One day he changed. He started shutting me down, refusing to talk about it any more. Does he really still think that a couple of days was all I needed to get over everything?

  ‘What happened? To make you this distant; to keep you this distant? I thought we were supposed to be getting through this together. That’s what you told me, that we’d get through this together.’

  ‘Nothing happened.’ He raises his gaze, his eyes meeting mine, and the look he gives me now breaks my heart. We’re getting nowhere. We’re not moving forward, we’re stagnating. No, we’re not even doing that; we’re drifting further apart. ‘I just think – a lot of time has passed now…’

  ‘And time heals everything, right? She kicked our baby to death, Michael. I was supposed to be keeping our unborn child safe, and I couldn’t do that. She killed our baby. She took our baby from us, took our chance to be parents away. And I have been dealing with that, dealing with everything, all on my own, because you refuse to talk to me. You refuse to let me talk to my friends…’

  You lie to me.

  He slams his fist down on the table beside him, causing the vase that was standing on it to vibrate, and I jump, falling back against the window. His eyes are dark now, his expression cold. He finds it so hard to be patient with me these days.

  ‘I love you, Ellie, I really do, but you are making it so difficult for me right now to be close to you.’

  He stands up, and I watch as he rakes a hand through his hair, throws his head back and lets out another heavy, frustrated sigh.

  ‘I did everything I could to make this better. I tried, I really did…’

  ‘You tried?’

  Past tense. He tried. And all I feel now is that numbness creeping back, sweeping over me, engulfing me.

  ‘When did you try, Michael?’

  All of a sudden the numbness recedes, the darkness pushes back and I move towards him. There’s a strength inside me now that I wasn’t aware of before.

  ‘What did you do, huh? To make this better? What did you do?’

  ‘I talked to the counsellor. I went because you wanted me to, because I thought it would help, and I sat there and I held your hand and we tried to talk this out. I talked to someone, we talked to someone…’

  ‘But we didn’t talk about everything, did we? We couldn’t…’

  ‘We talked as much as we could, Ellie. You were there; we talked enough to be able to move on, to some extent. It’s you who’s so bloody insistent that we continue to drag it all up. That isn’t helping anyone. All it’s going to do is hurt more people in the long run. Hurt us. We can’t grieve for the past forever. We can’t change what happened. It’s time to leave it alone now. It’s time to start living again.’

  He turns to go.

  ‘I’m not having this conversation…’

  ‘That’s right, walk away like you always do. Where are you going this time, Michael? What distraction are you looking for now?’

  He strides towards me, his face a mask of anger and frustration; the pity’s gone now. But he doesn’t scare me. He’d never hurt me, not physically. No matter how hard I push him, he’d never hurt me that way.

  ‘Do you know how crazy you sound, Ellie?’

  He almost hisses the words out, his fingers jabbing at the sides of his temple as his eyes bore into mine. I don’t think I sound crazy at all. I think I’m justified in wanting to know why, fourteen months on, my husband still can’t talk to me about what happened. I think it’s quite fair of me to want to know if he’s seeking solace in the arms of another woman, leaving me to deal with the pain and the memories all on my own. When he should be helping me. And he isn’t. He hasn’t.

  ‘Tomorrow I’m going to buy paint for that room…’

  ‘That room … you can’t even say it, can you? You can’t even call it the nursery…’

  ‘Because it i
sn’t a fucking nursery, Ellie. It never was.’

  The flat of my palm connects with his cheek before I even realise what I’m doing, the slap so hard it sends tingles vibrating all the way up my arm; but I’m not sorry. He deserved that.

  His eyes continue to stare right into me as he raises a hand to his cheek; but he doesn’t react, doesn’t respond. Instead he just turns and walks away. It doesn’t matter what I do, how far I push him. He always, eventually, walks away.

  I sit back down on the couch, clasping my hands together, wincing slightly because my injured hand is still sore.

  The front door slamming shut makes me jump, even though I know it’s just Michael. Leaving. And I look up, out into the quiet, empty kitchen. I’m alone, again. Just me and my paranoia. My fear.

  I get up. I need to check he’s locked the door behind him. And as I walk through the kitchen I flick on the TV, something to drown out the silence. I need some background noise. I need my own distraction. Is that what he’s doing? Is that where he’s gone? Has he gone to her? To Ava?

  Pulling at the door, I check that it’s locked. I slip on the chain and slide the bolts across, top and bottom. He’ll have to ring the doorbell if he wants to get back in. If he comes home. I need to feel safe while I’m here on my own.

  Feeling around in my back pocket for my phone, I pull it out, sitting down on the bottom of the stairs as I log onto the spyware app. I sit back against the wall, draw my knees to my chest and watch as the tiny green dot moves slowly across the screen, tilting my head to one side as I squint slightly, trying to make out exactly where it’s heading. And it feels like an eternity passes before it stops, but as I look up at the clock in the hall I see it’s only been a little over ten minutes. He can’t have gone that far.

  Sitting forward, I bring the phone closer to me, staring down at the screen. Where is my husband tonight? Where has he run to this time? It takes just a second or two for the address to pop up in front of me, a street name I don’t recognise. Which means he hasn’t gone to any of our friends. He hasn’t gone to any of his work colleagues – unless one of them has moved house, but he hasn’t mentioned anything. Why would he? We don’t indulge in small talk any more; I have to keep reminding myself of that. We don’t talk about work, our colleagues … we don’t share so much these days.